Maker's Mark
by wmj88
Summary: A daring robbery in Hamburg sends MI6 agent James Bond and SHIELD operative Natalia Romanova to Eastern Europe on the trail of counterfeiters. As Bond and Romanova close in on a beautiful Baroness and her giant bodyguard, a trained hunter stalks Bond from the shadows with only one goal in mind: seeing the secret agent dead at his hands. NOTE: This story features Marvel characters.
1. Prologue

_Author's note:  
_

_This story features characters from Marvel comics. Despite that fact, it is not reliant on the Marvel universe at large, just three characters. Because of that, and the fact that being elsewhere would open it to more views, I have decided not to place this work in the crossover section. Thank you for the time you take to read my disclaimer and my story, and enjoy. _

**Prologue:**

**"Death, Nothing but Death."**

**Dubai**

**2215 Local Time**

The lone scuba diver swam through the dark waters of the Persian Gulf towards their destination. A container ship anchored off the coast of the city. From a hundred feet under the ocean, the hull of the tanker above looked like some alien object hovering in the sky. The diver swam upwards slowly, stopping periodically to stave off any decompression from the sudden change in pressure. Shrouded in the dark of the waters, the diver held their hands against the hard metal of the bottom of the tanker.

There was a satchel attached to the diver's side. The diver reached their gloved hands into the satchel and produced a round metallic object. It was a small charge capable of breaching the thick hull above. The diver placed the rest of the charges in the satchel, a dozen in all, around strategic spots on the hull. The bombs would only be used as a last resort, if nothing else could be salvaged. The diver's head popped from the water and groped through the dark towards the starboard side of the boat.

The diver held their hands against the tanker's metallic side and pressed their palms to the sheet metal. The gloves in the diver's hands made a low electronic whine and then attached themselves to the metal on the side. With the glove's powerful electromagnets activated, the diver began to slowly scale the side of the tanker. They came to the railing nearly a hundred feet above the water and climbed over it and on to the deck of the tanker.

The diver stripped away the aqualung, gloves, and flippers. Pulling away the mask, James Bond breathed his first breath of fresh air in nearly an hour. He checked the coast to make sure that there were no sentries or prying eyes before he hoisted his scuba equipment over the side of the railing and let it drop to the water below. There was a quiet splash as the gear floated to the bottom of the ocean. Better it be wasted than to have some guard discover it and raise an alarm. Bond reached into the satchel at his side and removed his Walther PPS, wrapped in plastic to keep the water out. After making sure it had stayed dry, Bond checked that the magazine was full and then chambered a round into the gun.

"007 to Mother," he said into the microscopic microphone implanted in his back molar.

_"Mother here,"_ said a crisp voice in Bond's ear. It was M's chief of staff, Bill Tanner. _"You have the green light to go play with the neighborhood boys."_

With MI6's approval, Bond wordlessly began his journey across the deck of the tanker. The ship in question had paperwork that identified it as coming from Yemen, but Bond and Six knew that wasn't the case. In reality, the ship had come from Jakarta a week earlier. Bond knew, because he had been in Jakarta just after it had set sail. He had investigated a lead that his old friends HYDRA were preparing to launch another terrorist attack. Bond had gotten the intelligence from HYDRA's weapon master after breaking about twenty of the two hundred or so bones in his body. Now, Bond was infiltrating the ship to confirm that the weapon was on board. As soon as he gave a signal, British Special Forces along with the UAE Coast Guard and police would raid the ship and arrest all those involved.

Bond's wetsuit shoes were silent as he crept across the deck of the ship. Shipping containers had been stacked all across the top of the ship, creating a twisting and elaborate maze. Bond turned a corner, but quickly backed up when he saw the dull light of a cigarette tip in the dark. He glanced a peek and saw a guard. The heavyset Indonesian man had a gun, just a pistol from the way it looked. He didn't seem to carry himself like a man would if he had anything bigger than a handgun. Bond crouched and stepped back from the edge of the container. He willed himself to get as low as he could as the man approached. The guard came into view, his eyes not seeing Bond in the dark. Once he was past, Bond stood and swiftly struck him in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. He splayed to the ground, dazed. Bond kicked him in the head and bound his wrists with nylon zipties to make sure he stayed down. With the guard unconscious, he continued his journey.

He covered the deck in quiet and peace, coming to an entrance that led down. He leaned against the side of the door and looked down into the doorway. There was dim lights that went down a level before disappearing into a stairwell. This, Bond knew, was where it would get hard. He activated a button on his watch. Q Branch's latest toy, it had been designed to send out a short EMP burst every ten seconds. In theory, it would make Bond electronically invisible to any cameras or detection devices he met. With the watch activated, Bond ventured down into the carrier.

He hurried past an opening when he heard the sounds of snoring and soft Arabic music being played on a radio. He only looked back to make sure his suspicions had been confirmed. Nearly a dozen men were sleeping in bunk beds. Bond figured a skeleton crew working the boat. That appeared as a bit of a double-edged sword in his eyes. If there was a smaller crew, that meant fewer men for Bond to avoid. But that also could mean they weren't carrying anything illegal.

Bond put that out of his mind and continued down. He came to the ship's cargo hold. Shipping containers filled the hold to its brim, each one stacked upon another one all the way up seventy-five feet or so. Bond holstered his gun and scanned the area. He found what he was looking for just beside the entrance to the hold. An old desktop computer with a nicotine stained keyboard.

"The shipping number?" he asked Tanner in a low whisper.

_"India Romeo Hotel Sierra Tango Niner Eight Two Oscar."_

Bond typed out the serial number Tanner had relayed to him and pressed enter. Item IRHST982O was on the ship, and it was in a sector relatively close to his current location. Bond came to the shipping container and found the padlocked entrance. He reached into the satchel and pulled out a small case wrapped in plastic. Inside the case were a set of lockpicks, a miniature torch, a flashbang grenade, and the remote detonator to the charges underneath the ship. He picked the lock and quietly opened the door. He turned the torch on and shone the light into the container.

"Contact," he said.

Inside the container was a device no bigger than the engine of a diesel truck. It had tubes running from it that connected to two large vats of chemicals. Alone, the chemicals were relatively harmless. But the machine combined the two chemicals together and created NP0198AZ, a chemical agent that was three times as powerful as mustard gas. After mixing it, the machine would collect the gas into a canister and then shoot it out of a CO2 pressurized barrel into the air. Placed at the right spot at the right time in downtown Dubai, the machine could easily kill thousands.

"Kipling," Bond said. The go word for the operation.

_"We have eyes on the machine,"_ said a new voice. Not Tanner's, but the deep voice of M. _"All units move in. Disable it and pull back, 007. The SBS and UAE men are moving in as we speak."_

Bond confirmed and started into the container to cut the wires to the chemical vats. He was just a few feet in when he heard footfalls from behind him. A loud click followed the footsteps. Someone pulling back the hammer of a gun.

"Not so fast," said a voice behind Bond.

He turned and saw a tall, Indonesian man with a 9MM Glock in his hand.

"Hands where I can see them."

Bond complied, palming the flashbang grenade with his left hand. The Indonesian man began to walk into the container towards Bond. The man had a look of smugness to him that only came when one was certain they had attained absolute victory.

"Won't do you any good," said Bond. "Authorities are already on their way to the ship. Doesn't matter what you do now."

"I think it does," he said with a smirk. It was then that Bond noticed he had a switch in the hand not holding the gun. "You think this machine is the only one HYDRA has? It's one of many, my friend. We already have five inside the city, another twenty aboard this ship. Your friends step foot on this ship, I activate the ones inside Dubai and kill as many people as I can."

_"We have the shipping manifest,"_ said M into Bond's ear. _"Says here six containers have been dropped off to the mainland sine their arrival in Dubai."_

"What do you want?" Bond asked, stalling for time.

"Death," he said coldly. "Nothing but death. I'll bargain my way out of this mess and then detonate the machines we have in the city. Regardless of what your people try to do, HYDRA will succeed. You may cut off one head, but two will-"

"Oh, blow it out your arse," Bond said with a sigh. With the pinkie of his hand, he pulled the grenade pin and tossed it at the man. He turned away as the bright light exploded in the small, dark space. The man screamed, holding his eyes and stumbling around in pain. He dropped the detonator and Bond rushed forward to grab it. He ducked to avoid the man's flailing and nabbed the detonator from the ground. He tucked it into his satchel and pulled his pistol towards the blind man, but stopped when he saw him crash into Bond's small carrying case. Confused, he picked up the detonator to the bomb's under the ship.

"HAIL HYDRA!" he screamed.

"No, you goddamn git!"

That was all Bond could get out before the explosions rocked him backwards. He slammed into the side of the shipping container as the ship vibrated heavily. The sound of the charges going off had been replaced with that of rushing water.

_"Get out of there, 007!"_ ordered M.

Bond looked back at the blind man. He was now crawling on the floor and groping for some way out. Bond slammed the container shut behind him and slipped the padlock back in before running through the hold. Water was already ankle-deep in the hold. By the time he got to the stairs, it was up to his shins and rising. Crewmen were running around frantically, not caring who Bond was or what his purpose was here. He was halfway up to the deck when the entire ship shifted sideways. He slammed hard against the wall and fought against the gravity as he climbed upwards.

There was the sound of groaning metal below, followed by a loud metallic snap. Bond came on to the deck, now seeing that the cause of the snap was the hull cracking in two. Cursing, Bond raced towards the front of the ship and felt the deck slide under his feet as the bow of the ship began to rise into the air. He knew he had to get free of the boat before it sank. The suction that accompanied the sinking would drag him to the bottom of the ocean. Running as fast as he could, Bond came out of the maze of containers and rushed towards the bow. There came another snap, this time the front half of the hull was nearly vertical. Fighting against the slippery deck, Bond leaped from the boat's front port side and straightened his body out as he dove the hundred feet to the water below.

He splashed into the salty ocean water and positioned his body parallel to the surface. Bond used the speed of his fall to distance himself from the sinking tanker. He began kicking after the momentum slowed, ignoring the sounds of swirling water in his ear. After a minute's swimming and not feeling the suction, Bond surfaced from the ocean and looked around. The tanker's tip was barely visible above the choppy waters of the ocean. It was rapidly descending down into the water. Bond treaded water and looked around for any other survivors.

"007 to Mother," he said between breaths. "I'm about a hundred yards due west of the shipwreck."

_"Stay where you are,"_ said Tanner. _"Chopper's inbound to pick you up."_

Bond's breath relaxed as he looked towards the bright lights of Dubai. HYDRA's weapons, save for the few that made it to the city, were out of commission. The rest would be a simple mopping up exercise that involved following the trail of the shipping containers to where they were delivered. He had the detonator, and he had stopped the devices from being distributed. For the most part, it was a mission accomplished.

Unbeknownst to Bond, there was someone watching him nearly a mile away. In a perch on a highrise beside the shore, a sniper sat and watched through his scope. He had just watched the events play out with a playful smirk on his lips. This Bond was a rare specimen. A man who was as dangerous as he was chaotic. The sniper had been shadowing and studying him for nearly a month. Now, like countless times over the past four weeks, he had Bond right in his sights. His night vision scope had been lined up perfectly with the man's head in the cross hairs. One squeeze of the trigger, and no more Bond. But that was not the sniper's orders. SPECTRE didn't want a dead James Bond, they wanted a stalked one. When the time came, the sniper would pull the trigger. But until then, he watched and waited.

The sniper was sure that, when the kill order came in, he wouldn't do it in this fashion. No, James Bond deserved more than just a bullet in the head from long-range. He had to be bested face to face, the sniper needed to watch Bond's eyes as all life left them. Bond was a prey of the finest caliber, and just the sort of prey that kept Kraven worthy of his title of Hunter.

**Ian Fleming's**  
**James Bond**  
**007**

**In**

**Maker's Mark**


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Operation: Midas**

**Hamburg, Germany  
0185 Local Time**

The squat six-story building was not much to look at. It was a dull gray and designed in a manner that made it look like a concrete block placed upright. It was on the outskirts of the city, where the metropolitan Germany gave way to the old rural German of the past. A sign on the side of building read Hamburgische Münze. It was the Hamburg Mint, one of three locations that was responsible for printing and distributing the currency of Germany. A mile away, a craft moved seemingly silent through the air.

To the average eye, it would appear as a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. The only major differences between this chopper and the Black Hawk design were twofold: this craft's outside paneling was a black metal alloy that made it invisible on radar and nearly any other electronic devices. The second difference could be found in the chopper's rotors. The stealth rotors made a relative whisper of the normally loud noise that accompanied any helicopter. Only a small handful of people in the world actually knew how many of these stealth helicopters existed. This one in particular had been stolen six months earlier from an American military base in North Carolina. Virtually invisible and unheard, the chopper slowed and began to hover above the roof of facility. Doors on opposite sides of the helicopter slid open, ropes falling from the openings and hitting the flat rooftop.

Two by two on each side, a dozen black-clad figures slid down the quick rope to the roof below. They were all clad in the same gear. Black combat boots with black tactical pants and shirts, black kevlar body armor on their chests, and black ski masks on their faces. They each had black M4 carbines in their hands. Ten of the shocktroopers appeared as men of average height and build. The only two stand outs were very noticeable. A large man, 6'6 at least, led the way across the roof. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, with a chest nearly the size of a barrel. At the very back of the group, a skinny figure in baggy clothes trailed behind. This man was maybe 5'5, the combat boots giving him a few inches of height.

The chopper flew away quietly as the twelve troops approached the side of the roof. The giant held out a hand and motioned towards the edge of the roof. Two men hurried up and slammed spikes into the roof. They attached nylon cables to the spikes and tossed the cables over the side. Waving a hand forward, the giant and his little friend stayed in position while the rest of the men took the two cables and began to slowly repel down the side of the building two at a time. Halfway down, the two men in the lead stopped at a row of windows and pulled round devices from their belts. There was a single yellow button on the black face of the device, a sticky epoxy on the corresponding side. They slapped the devices on the glass epoxy first. Trading a glance and a nod, they pressed the buttons on their devices at the same time. The windows here were rigged with alarms. Any attempt to break or cut into the glass and it would sound. That was where their tiny gadgets came in. They couldn't hear it, but a sonic pitch emitted from the devices and vibrated the glass of the window. The vibration was so fast and unstable that it turned the window's glass from solid to nearly a liquid.

The two men tested the glass, their hands going through the window without a problem. They signaled the men above and swung through the unstable window into the office on the other side. One by one, the ten men came through the glass without feeling the glass on their skin or tripping an alarm. The ten shocktroopers formed into two five men lines as they carefully navigated through the dark office. They way they had it timed, they had just come through the window not ten seconds after the security guard had made his rounds through the office. There were cameras, but the nightwatch was patrolling and not looking at the footage. Who cared if they saw them after the job was over? They wouldn't see anything of consequence, just ten men in all-black with weapons pulling off the greatest robbery of all time.

The two leaders of the columns stopped and held up their hands to stop their men. In front of them was a workstation terminal with a six servers underneath it. The leader of the group held his wrist-mounted microphone up to his mouth and broke radio silence for the first time.

"У меня в наличии," he said in Russian.

_"Выполните планируется," _came a gruff voice reply over the radio.

Nodding, he waved one of his men forward. The man came to the computer and pulled a USB stick from a pouch on his pants. It was larger and bulkier than most jump drives. The thing that caught someone's eye that it was different was the two wires running from the back of the USB drive and to a small motherboard attached to the stuck. The black-clad soldier found a port and slid the stick into it. He activated a switch on the motherboard and watched as the screen of the computer flashed on. Numbers and code speed by on the screen for about five seconds before it went to black.

"Данные загружены. Выезда," the leader said into the radio.

The soldiers turned and began to head back the way they came, but they stopped in their tracks as a sound came through the office. Somewhere, a door was opening. There was the sound of footsteps and the jangling of keys. Before the team leader could order, an older man in the uniform of a security guard came around a corner and right into the men.

"Was zur Hölle?" he shouted, stepping backwards. He pulled the pistol from his holster as the ten men opened fire on them with their suppressed weapons. The bullets made the guard jerk like some sort of perverted ragdoll. His body jerked as he fell, his finger spasming around the trigger of his weapon on instinct. The gunshot broke the quiet German night, the bullet striking one of the men just in the stomach below his kevlar vest.

"Ебать!" Shouted one of the men as his compatriot crumpled to the ground. The team leader ordered the rest of the men to hurry and move out. A shrill alarm sounded as he looked down at his wounded man. He put him out of his misery with three quick shots to the head. Sighing, he followed the rest of his time back through the unstable glass and up the cables to the roof. The stealth chopper was back hovering above the building. The team hurried up the ropes and, five minutes later, they were already ten miles away from the Hamburg Mint.

Inside the hold of the stealth helicopter, the men watched as their small leader railed into them in Russian. The men had been berated for their slowness and ineffectiveness. The berating only stopped when the men produced the USB drive. Their leader nodded and removed the ski-mask. Underneath the dark wool was a beautiful woman with her raven black hair tied up in a bun. She pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and inspected the jump drive before pressing a second button on the motherboard.

"Number 3 to Number 2," the Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna said into her satellite uplink. "We lost a man, but we recovered the data. I am uploading it to you now."

_"It was not perfect,"_ a deep voice in an Italian accent replied in her ear. The communication link was private and for her ears only. _"You and your pet giant finish the job. Leave no links to these Russian criminals and yourself. From there proceed as planned."_

"Yes, sir. Number 3 out."

The Baroness took a deep breath and leaned back in her seat. The men around her didn't know it, but the gigantic man to her right would soon kill them all. It was partially the plan, but she wanted their deaths as slow and agonizing as possible. She wanted them to know SPECTRE's price for failure, that death would be a walk in the park compared to the punishment they would receive. But that would come later. For now, she could bask in her temporary victory and know that the first part of Operation: Midas had done its job.

SPECTRE's most audacious plan yet was now underway. She had set into emotion a series of events would end up bringing Europe to its knees. The Baroness smiled at that thought. After having to suffer at the hands of those who were more fortunate all her life, she was now turning the tables. She leaned back and began planning which country she would end up buying with her money.

**London, England  
0821 Local Time**

The black Aston Martin DB9 drove through the rainy streets of London. The traffic on Horseferry road was moving along faster than its normal pace. This time of day in this part of the city, it was very lucky that there wasn't twice as many cars out on the road. The weather was potentially a factor. The DB9 rode over Lambeth Bridge. Victoria Tower was in the distance to the car's left. After a few minutes of driving, the car came to a closed off parking garage that led down. A sign beside the closed metal door said Universal Exports. The car's driver punched in the code to the garage door and drove through after the door was open. The Aston Martin went down into the garage and found a spot marked 7. The engine off, the door swung open and out stepped James Bond. He dressed in a charcoal gray suit, onyx tie, and black leather shoes. He wore a brown rain coat and carried a briefcase in his hand as he walked through the garage. Clipped to his chest was an identification badge that said he belonged in this facility.

He went through the checkpoints and security stops before finally coming out into the office space on the building's fourth floor. Known to the world at large as the headquarters of international trading company Universal Export, this was the headquarters of MI6's Overseas Development Group. The name was for the number crunchers and budget men. Overseas Development Group looked dull and boring. Section 00 could potentially catch someone's eye and raise questions. The building was only four blocks from Vauxhall Cross and an ideal off-site location to house the 00 agents. There was a shooting range, an armory, and an obstacle course below the garage level to help the 00's keep up their form in times where they were inactive from field duty.

Bond was going through a time such as this. It had been nearly six weeks since the incident in Dubai. In that time, Bond had acted as head of ODG. The rule of thumb was that one 00 had to always stay in-country to manage the office and consult and offer advice to Six on any ongoing ODG operation happening abroad. Bond didn't mind the time off too much. He had whiled away the days and weeks with a Danish woman who was in the city modeling for some boutique fashion designer. Her English wasn't great. It limited their conversations, not that it bothered Bond. He had found her stimulating in areas other than conversation.

"Good morning, Goodnight," he said as he approached his office.

"A year in, and I still haven't gotten tired of that joke," quipped the tall and slender blonde woman standing beside his office door. She gave him a kind smile and took his briefcase.

Mary Goodnight was Bond's personal assistant, a role she had been given a year ago when Bond had been given 00 status. She was ten years Bond's junior and breathtakingly gorgeous in a natural way. She was the polar opposite of the Danish model Bond had spent his nights with. Whereas the model spent hours primping and preparing to look good, all Mary had to do was wake up. If she had worked anywhere else, Bond would have already made a pass at her. But she was his PA. He recalled a saying he had heard in the Royal Marines in regard to dogs. "Don't shit where you eat," was how it went. Although Bond was a man, he tended to follow the advice. But, Bond thought, seeing as the reputation he had perhaps the metaphor of a dog was an apt one.

"Anything I need be aware of?" he asked as he took his raincoat off and hung it on the coat rack beside his door.

"Overnight traffic from 00's, nothing marked Flash/Urgent. Also, Vauxhall Cross needs to see you as soon as possible."

"Who rang?"

"Miss Moneypenny."

Bond sighed. Moneypenny meant that it was M who needed to talk. He wasn't looking forward to going back out into the rain, but there were an upshot or two. If M wanted to see him, it may mean he was back on field duty. Plus, he would get to see Moneypenny. From where he was sitting, the pros outweighed the cons. He smiled at Goodnight as he slipped his raincoat back on and took the briefcase from her hands.

Almost an hour later, Bond was in M's office. They were watching footage from a security camera on the wall-mounted monitor. The black and white footage showed ten black-clad figures with assault rifles sneaking through a dark office building. The men came to a computer terminal and one man proceeded to start some sort of program.

"Thoughts?" M asked as they watched.

"They're professionals," said Bond. "Look at their formation and tactics. They're experts at this. Methodical and well-trained, not to mention the technology they seem to have used. Where was this video taken?"

"Hamburg. Two days ago, these ten men broke into the national mint there."

"Money?"

"No," said M. He looked away from the screen and made eye contact with Bond, his grey eyes meeting Bond's blue-grey. "Something more. They took files. The complete details and specifications of the Euro, specifically the five, one hundred, two hundred, and five hundred banknotes."

"I thought they used plates for that or some other sort of thing?"

"They used to," said the old man as he leaned back in his char. "But it's all going digital now. The Euro has security codes and watermarks all through it that make sure its authentic. Those files were like a bloody road map on how to print them."

"Can't the EU just create new ones and reprint them?"

"Yes, but you know how much time and effort that would take, Bond? Billions of dollars are in circulation at the moment. They've begun work on new security measures, but by the time they'd be done and ready to print it will be much too late."

"The UK isn't in the Eurozone. What's Six's stake?"

"Personal favor to the commissioner of Interpol," he grunted. M tapped his right fist on the desk, his university class ring chattering against the desk's rich wood. "We're doing a separate investigation alongside theirs. I want you on it."

"But my duties here at Universal Exports?"

"I'm recalling 006 from Egypt. That operation seems bust, and Wisdom could use some time to recharge his batteries."

"Fine by me," Bond said, trying to hide his excitement. Hunting down counterfeiters wasn't an ideal mission, but it was a job. "Where do I get my start?"

"Belarus. One of the robbers was killed in the fighting along with a security guard. Interpol says he was a criminal from Minsk with the name of Zus Shulman. Part of a ring of criminals... guess what they do..."

"Counterfeiting?"

"And the boy gets a cigar."

M leaned forward in his chair, putting his hands together and preparing to speak. This worried Bond because this was the stance M took when he prepared to deliver less than thrilling news.

"There is one caveat," he said cautiously. "You're going to work with a partner."

"Who?"

"Someone from SHIELD."

"Why?" Bond furrowed his brow. What did SHIELD have to do with this?

"The Americans have been quiet about it, but it seems that they were hit in the same manner last week. At a mint in California. Someone stole the layout of their hundred-dollar bills."

Bond did his best not to roll his eyes. This was the third time he would have to clean up America's messes in the last year. First the mobile warheads in Mumbai, then the rogue American colonel, and now this. He could have sworn he worked for the British government as a secret agent, not as personal custodian to SHIELD's messes.

"Is it that man I worked with in India? Dugan?"

"No. SHIELD sent an agent who has experience in Russian matters." M reached out and hit the intercom on his desk. "Send her in, Moneypenny."

There was a buzz and the door swung open. A red-haired woman sashayed through the office. Bond and M stood as she approached them.

"James Bond, this is Natalia Romanova of SHIELD. Ms. Romanova, 007."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bond," she said in a light Russian accent. She shook Bond's hand.

"All mine," he replied.

Bond kept a neutral look, but inside he was grinning. On the trail of dangerous and deadly criminals with a sexy Russian secret agent at his side. The only downside was that their destination was Eastern Europe in cold weather. Bond wished that these counterfeiters had been from the Bahamas instead. He had no doubt Agent Romanova would look amazing in a bikini. Oh, well, he supposed. All things considered, he could certainly think of worse things in the world he could be doing.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Mr. Smith & Mrs. Smith-Wesley**

**Minsk, Belarus  
1544 Local Time**

Bond opened the door into the hotel room and stepped aside for Natalia to enter first. They had been booked in a room together on the eighth floor of the Garni Hotel. The room was modest with the usual furnishings of a mid-level hotel room. There was a television, a couch, a table with two chairs, and the all too familiar generic paintings than hung on the dull gray walls. A window looked out over the city, a fresh snowfall had blanketed the buildings in a light powdering and gave the entire city a still look even in the mid-afternoon.

The settings fit with their cover story here in Belarus. They were a married couple on holiday, Mr. John Wesley and his wife Mrs. Carol Smith-Wesley. Anonymity was the plan here. There wasn't a need draw anyone's attention to their presence just yet, so the quieter they played it the better. They dressed for the part. Bond was wearing dark slacks, a white button up shirt with no tie, and a black sports jacket underneath his black pea coat. Natalia wore a black coat with a dark green blouse, denim jeans, and sensible heels. They both wore faux wedding bands on their left hands.

"I'll take the sofa, you can have the bed," Bond said as he laid his bag on the floor. He began to unpack, but stopped when he noticed the SHIELD agent watching him. "Something wrong?"

"You surprise me, Mister Bond. I had heard stories-"

"Stories?" he arched an eyebrow. "Oh, good god. You too? What do you people think I am, some sort of nymphomaniac?"

"All I am saying is that Dugan and I had a bet back when you were in the hospital in India. An over/under on your STD count."

"I hope you lost every damn cent you bet."

"I won, actually." She gave Bond a soft smile. "I picked the under."

"Look, we're here on a mission. You're a fellow agent. I don't mix business and pleasure-"

"Unless the woman is a high-ranking member of HYDRA?"

"Now would be a good time to remind you I have a license to kill." He said through gritted teeth.

"Hard to kill someone when they've broken both your arms before you can blink."

Bond fumed while Natalia gave him a crooked smile. Shaking his head, he opened up his case and activated the false bottom. The bottom was lead-lined with electromagnetic emitters to throw off any x-ray or video scans the bag went through at the airport. Inside the bottom was his Walther, Romanova's 9MM Glock, suppressors and spare clips for each weapon, a small collection of knives, a few Q branch gadgets, and a pair of black gauntlets Natalia had brought with her from America. Bond went about laying them on the bed.

"So, what's our first move?" He asked as he checked his Walther and loaded a clip in. He removed his pea coat and sport jacket, slipping on the leather shoulder holster where he kept his gun. His gun secured, he slipped his coats back on and adjusted them so the holster was no longer visible.

"This man who killed in Germany, Zus Shulman, he has contacts here in Minsk. We will check them out and find out if they have anything we can use."

Bond nodded and picked up a butterfly knife that he slipped into his pants pocket.

"Six doesn't have much intelligence on Minsk. Station R mostly keeps their eyes peeled towards Moscow. Does SHIELD have any information worth a damn?"

"No relevant data," she said as she walked towards the equipment Bond had laid out. "But I have some contacts I can use here in the city. It was five years ago the last time I came here."

"Question, how does a Russian of all people end up working as a SHIELD agent?"

"My mother." She picked the Glock from the bed and slid it into the holster in small of her back. "She was KGB and defected to the west before I was born. She worked with SHIELD in the past, and even taught at MI6's special spy school back during the Cold War."

"Huh. If she'd stayed on, she may have been one of my instructors."

All ready to go, Bond watched as Natalia slipped the black gauntlets on her wrists. Once secured, she covered them with the sleeves of her blouse.

"Now, what are those?" He asked with a nod towards her wrist.

"My toys."

"What kind of toys," he asked with a playful smirk.

"There's the James Bond I've heard of... But, no these bracelets were designed by SHIELD. They perform a variety of features. Too many to get into at the moment."

"Play coy if you wish. Shall we?"

"Yes," she said. She picked a switch blade from the bed and placed it into her jacket. "Let's."

The man who was Natalia's contact was a fat, ruddy-faced man named Nikita. A commander in the Minsk police, he told them that he was named after the famed Soviet leader. Nikita had been born at the height of Khrushchev's popularity and the name, which had been a mark of pride as a boy, had steadily meant less and less as the years passed. Now, a name was all it was.

"So, my dear," Nikita said in Belarusian-accented English. The English, Bond presumed, was for his benefit. The three of them sat at a table in a small café. Nikita's usual table was in the corner facing the door. He sipped a café mocha while Bond and Natalia passed on any food or beverage. "You don't write or call, and now you show up out of the blue asking for a favor."

"Only because I need the help of a man who knows what he's doing."

Bond wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he saw Natalia bat her eyelashes at Nikita. The fat man laughed and winked at her before taking a long sip from his drink. He wiped the foam from his lips before he spoke. "So what is it I can do for you?"

"We're looking into a local criminal named Zus Shulman."

"Anyway you can tell me what this is in regards to, my dear?"

"You would be doing me a great service," she said, placing her hand on top of Nikita's. "What else do you need to know?"

He smiled softly to himself and looked down at her hand before looking up. "Tell me how you spell it and I will find out what I can."

Five minutes later, Bond and Natalia were walking towards the rental car they had purchased at the airport. Bond pulled his coat close around his waist and quietly chuckled.

"What?" she asked with a curious look.

"You talk about me," he said, looking up at the sky and laughing again. "But you're something worse than loose."

"And what is that?"

"You're a tease."

"What makes you so sure?" she asked with a look that bordered on offended. "Who is to say Nikita and I aren't old lovers?"

"You would only be an old lover in the literal sense, but I don't think so. The way you flirted with him, the way he responded. I know the look of a man who's being strung along. After all those years he's still wrapped around your finger."

"Flirtation and charm is part of our business, Bond. If anyone understands this, I would assume it would be you. What is that saying? If you have it, flaunt it."

And you do flaunt it well, thought Bond. Very well, indeed.

A half hour later they were back in the lobby of their hotel, heading up to the room to work on field reports for their respective agencies when Natalia's mobile rang.

"Hello?" she answered. Bond stopped and watched as her curious face melted into a playful smile and laugh. "Ах, вы. Где? Заводского? Спасибо, Никита. Я буду говорить с вами в ближайшее время. До свидания."

She closed her phone and slid it back into her pocket.

"Have a nice chat did we?" Bond asked with a smirk.

"Shulman runs a bar in Minsk's Zavodski neighborhood." Natalia ignored Bond's dig and began walking back towards the hotel's entrance. "Nikita says that the bar is a front for his criminal enterprises. They fence stolen goods, peddle drugs... and used to have a printing press in the back where they printed phony rubles."

"Wonderful," said Bond.

Bond and Natalia sat in the parked rental car down the block from the bar. They were watching the location for nearly two hours. Plenty unsavory types had come and gone in that time, none staying longer than ten minutes at a time. When they had left, they each carried packets under their arms. Mules, Natalia had guessed. Bond had agreed. They were either carrying drugs or phony money.

"We should go soon," he said. "We only have an hour of daylight left at the most."

"How do we approach it?" She pulled her pistol from the holster on the small of her back and checked it.

"You go in the front since you speak the language. I'll cover any back exits."

"What are the odds the stolen data is in there?"

"Almost nil." Bond pulled his PPS from the shoulder holster and laid it on his lap. "All the technology and skill they used on that raid, there's no way they would set up shop in some rundown bar."

"Let's go."

Without another word, they stepped out of the car and headed towards the bar. Both kept the guns low around their thighs to hide them from the prying eyes of any passing pedestrian or motorist. There was a side alley ten yards from the bar's entrance. Bond ducked down it and hurried around the back of the building. He found a metallic green door with rust stains on it. It had a sign in Belarusian, a crude sign in English underneath it that said the entrance was employee's only. Bond tested it and found it locked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, thin wire. He stuck it into the lock and wiggled it slowly. The wire, a Q Branch invention, was the world's fastest lockpick. Optic sensors in the wire read the shape of the pin tumblers inside, the sensors would relay the data to the wire and it would conform to the shape of the lock, becoming as rigid as steel. With his freshly made key, Bond popped the lock and tucked the wire back into his jacket as he stepped inside.

He stepped through a back office that was quite shabby in appearance. There was a desk made of cheap particle board disguised as oak, on top of which sat an old desktop computer. There was a door on the other side of the office, and Bond could hear voices through it. Loud voices shouting in Russian. He could hear Natalia yelling, followed by a second and third voice that belonged to men. Bond leaned against the door and listened in. He heard footsteps fast approaching and stepped back as the door slung open. A thin, rat-faced man with gray hair saw Bond and recoiled backwards in shock. Bond came forward and grabbed him by the shoulder with his left hand, keeping his gun hand trained on the man. Over his shoulder, Bond could see Natalia squaring off with three men. She was just a blur of motion to Bond's eyes. He saw her jump and kick one man hard against the bar with a roundhouse, blood flew from the man's mouth and spattered the surface of the bar. Ignoring the fight, Bond shoved the man against the wall and held him there while Natalia finished up her work inside the bar.

"Okay," she said as she walked towards them unarmed, her gun back in its holster. Bond stepped back and looked to where Natalia had just come from. Two men were on the ground clutching feebly at their body parts and moaning quietly. More disturbing, one man was flat on his face and not moving at all. It wasn't until Bond saw the shallow breathing that he was sure the man was alive.

He turned away from the hurt men and back to the one against the wall. He and Natalia had a rapid conversation in Russian. Bond couldn't follow, but he could read the universal language of the body. He was nervous, pleading with Natalia about something. She shook her head and gave him a fixed gaze. Bond caught a few words he recognized in their conversation: "Shulman", "Minsk", "Control," "Pain", "Gun", "Gambling." Satisfied, Natalia drove her palm into the man's face and knocked him down to the ground.

"Let's go," she said.

"What'd he say?"

They came out the back door of the bar and hurried through the alley that led back to the street out front. Bond slipped his Walther back into the shoulder holster as they approached the mouth of the alley.

"The last time any of them saw Shulman was a month ago. They all thought he was dead, because the last thing he talked to them about was having a big meeting with a man named Jan. He is apparently the man who runs the criminal rackets in Minsk. He operates out of a casino downtown. The Belaya Vezha casino."

They passed by a homeless man propped against a wall, Bond looked at him warily and didn't speak again until they were out of earshot.

"A casino would be a damn good front to pass off counterfeit money. And if they cater to people from the west, that means exchanging euros and dollars."

They came to the car. Bond slipped into the passenger's seat while Natalia got behind the wheel.

"The only question that remains," she said as she started the car. "Is how good of a gambler you actually are."

"I don't gamble. The word implies that there is a chance I may lose. I win, simple as that."

"We shall see."

The rental car pulled out on to the street and sped down the road.

Once Bond and the woman drove off, the homeless man stood and watched their car fade off into the distance. His midnight black hair touched with gray dye, the same with his goatee. Even though he refused to shave, Kraven was certain Bond hadn't noticed him. He crossed paths with the secret agent on a nearly daily basis since Bond's return to London. He had used the camouflage of the city's working class as his cover. Each time he had worn a different disguise, one day as a taxi driver, the next as a man at a magazine stand. Each day, Bond just passed by without a second glance. Today was the hardest Bond had looked at him since Kraven had started his hunt.

With the car hurrying off, Kraven pulled a mobile from his shabby clothes and dialed the number he had been given.

_"Speak,"_ said Number 2.

"I am in Minsk. I have followed our friend here."

_"Minsk? What the hell is he doing in Belarus?"_ Number 2 sounded surprised, possibly even shocked.

"I have not gotten close enough to figure out their mission. He is with a woman. Red-haired with a Russian accent."

There came from the other end of the line a long string of obscenities in Italian. Kraven waited patiently before continuing.

"Are my orders still the same?"

_"No. Take out Bond and the woman immediately."_

"Yes, sir."

Kraven disconnected and tucked the phone back into his coat. He could barely contain the smile on his face. Finally, after long months of watching, it was time. The waiting was over. Now, the hunt could begin.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Baccarat With The Baroness **

**Belaya Vezha Casino  
Minsk, Belarus  
2313 Local Time**

Bond hated the smell of cigarette smoke. It was a hatred only recently developed, which timed with his giving up the habit. A smoker since the age of sixteen, Bond's quitting was one of the prerequisites for becoming a 00 agent. He had quit shortly before beginning 00 training three years ago. He had backslid occasionally during his training, smoking to relieve some of the stress and anxiety that came with the job, but he hadn't looked back since his last cigarette nearly two and a half years ago. As much as Bond detested the smell of cigarettes smoked by the British, the ones in Eastern Europe were on an entirely different level. The tobacco was foul-smelling in its plain state, and the burning of it only enhanced the stench.

Unfortunately for Bond, those were the only cigarettes being smoked here in the Belaya Vezah Casino. He stood in the middle of the casino floor, looking around at the various sights and sounds. Tourist mingled with locals at the half-dozen card and roulette tables. Packs of elderly men and women dominated the bright and noisy slot machines that wailed ever few minutes. The carpet was shabby with the odd stain placed here and there. The gold plating on the slot machines was dingy and tarnished. To Bond's eyes, it was a casino in name only. The Belaya Vezha wasn't worthy enough for it to be mentioned in the same breath as the opulent gambling palaces of Monaco and Las Vegas. It would bring in the tourist and rubes by the droves, but he could see what it was underneath the surface: A cheap imitation.

"007 to Black Widow," he whispered into the microphone implanted in his tooth. "Where the bloody hell are you?"

_"I'm in a taxi heading your way now."_

They had formulated their plan at the hotel. Bond was to gamble at the tables and try to get his hands on some of the counterfeit money while Natalia attempted to get close to Jan. He had already exchanged a thousand pounds for chips. The current exchange rate gave him a little over seventy thousand rubles worth of chips, an amount that surprised him. He wasn't an economist, but he had no idea the Pound was that stronger than the Ruble. Bond adjusted his tie. After the run in at the bar, he had changed from his casual clothes into a charcoal three-piece suit with gray vertical pinstripes, a matching waistcoat, a white dress shirt, and a dark metallic blue tie. A pair of black leather shoes and a back leather belt rounded out his look. He was without his Walther tonight due to the metal detectors at the front door. Q Branch was good, but as of yet they hadn't been able to create a metal-less gun. Natalia was running late because she had to seek out a dress that would match her persona as a high-roller gambler looking to lay down money.

"Hurry the hell up. We haven't got all night."

_"Look towards the front door."_

Bond turned and did a double take at the sight. Natalia had on a wine-colored cocktail dress. It ended just above her knees and hugged her curves, accentuating them as she walked. A v-neckline plunged downwards towards her chest and hinted at the cleavage underneath. She carried a matching clutch purse, and on her wrists were the special SHIELD bracelet passing as regular jewelery. She wore matching colored peep-toe pumps. Her long red hair was down around her shoulders, one eye covered by the long, crimson locks.

"Not bad," whispered Bond. She looked his way briefly before turning to look elsewhere.

_"Wipe your mouth. I see a bit of drool."_

Bond smirked and turned away. He saw that he wasn't the only one staring. Men and even women were giving Natalia a wide berth as she walked through the casino floor. Everyone from the old men at the slot, to the tourists at the blackjack table, to the pit bosses watching for cheaters all stopped to pause and stare. Bond headed towards the card tables while Natalia drifted that way as well.

"Heads up," he said discreetly as he looked upwards.

On the catwalk above the floor where the watchers stood, three figures emerged from a door marked "Private." In the lead was a man Bond recognized from the Interpol mugshot as Jan Lukashenka, the kingpin of the Minsk organized crime ring. His gray hair, tuxedo, and clam demeanor betrayed his reputation as a ruthless killer. Behind him was a beautiful woman in a form-fitting, open back black gown. She had shoulder length raven black hair that swayed softly as she walked in her black stiletto heels. What caught Bond's eye were the glasses, a pair of black-rimmed glasses that on any other woman may have detracted from her looks. But on this woman, the spectacles acted like a magnifying glass for her beauty. Behind her was, without a doubt, the largest man Bond had ever seen. He was over seven feet tall, and looked as if he was nearly five feet wide. His corn silk blonde hair was in a tight crew cut, and he wore a simple red crew neck shirt with a sports jacket and blue slacks. Bond imagined it would cost a fortune to either find or tailor a suit for the man.

_"Who are those two?"_

"Hell if I know, but I can find out if I can get close enough."

He walked across the casino floor and into the card games section just as Lukashenka and his guests came down from the catwalk. He headed to the right towards a pit boss while the other two walked towards a baccarat table. The woman settled into a seat at the table, the large man standing behind her with his arms crossed. Bond walked over and sat down. Besides him, her, and her shadow, there was the dealer at the table and two other men. One man was Asian, a would-be gambler wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses on his face. The other man was heavyset and gray-headed with a bulky frame and ruddy face that screamed Eastern Europe.

"Banco," said the dealer, sliding the horseshoe card dispenser to the woman. "Seventy thousand."

"Banco," said Bond. He placed his bet, pushing seven one thousand ruble plaques across the green velvet to the center of the table.

The woman stared at Bond for a moment. Her bight blue flashed behind her glasses. She sized Bond up very much in the same way a lioness would size up a gazelle. He fixed a steely gaze and looked back impassively, showing neither interest or disinterest in her. She dealt four cards from the card dispenser, two for him and two for her.

The object of baccarat is to come the closest to eight or nine with your two cards without going over. Each number card is worth the number printed on it. The face cards and the ten card are worth nothing, and the aces are only worth one. One player plays the part of the banker, the other is the player. The winner of the hand gets the point.

Bond preferred baccarat over games like poker, blackjack, and roulette. Blackjack and poker were both too based in mathematical formula and had odds that were too easy to calculate, and roulette was too simplistic. Baccarat was the best of both worlds. Like roulette it came down to blind chance. But like poker, it was reliant on reading your opponent and figuring out what they had, or how to make them think you had what you wanted them to have. It was mind games on top of the luck involved.

Bond glanced at his cards. He had a queen of spades and a five of diamonds. A score of five. He looked up and saw the woman had a soft smirk on her face. Bond thought it over while they rest of the table looked on. She had an air of confidence that annoyed Bond for some reason. It seemed too aggressive, like a used car salesman trying to convince a potential buyer that their lemon was worth every pound they asked for.

"Card," said Bond.

With a score under six, he could call for one more card. If she didn't call for a card as the banker, it meant she had at least a six. She slid a card from the dispenser and slid it across the velvet to Bond. He looked at it and flipped his three cards over. A four of clubs joined the queen and five. A nine. She furrowed her brow and flipped her cards over, showing a three of hearts and a four of spades.

"Nine to seven," said the dealer. "Hand to the player."

Bond tossed his cards across the table as the dealer pushed the fourteen one thousand ruble plaques his way. He scooped them up with both hands and placed them in a neat pile in front of him. Bond smirked and winked at the woman, who's confident smile was wiped away, replaced by an annoyed pout. Bond thought it suited her quite better than the cocky grin.

"I'm done," he said as he slid a plaque to the dealer as a tip.

He pulled his phone out as he got up, pretending to check the time. In actuality, the mobile's camera snapped a quick shot of the woman and her massive companion.

"Enjoy your evening," he said to the table in general before looking at the woman. "And better luck next time, yeah?"

A member of the casino walked through the casino with him as protection as they headed towards the cashier's cage. With his phone still out, Bond activated one of the covert apps on his mobile. The facial recognition software would analyze the picture he had just taken and comb through the databanks of MI6, Interpol, and any other database Bond had access to. If there was a match, he would get an email alert on his phone.

At the cashier's cage, Bond swapped out his one hundred and thirty thousand rubles out for...

"That's it?" Bond asked, looking at the nine euros and change in front of him.

"What can I say," the old woman behind cashier's cage asked rhetorically. "You come to Belarus to gamble, learn exchange rates. This is not Monaco."

Bond tucked the paltry sum into his jacket pocket and turned away from the cashier. The guard shadowing him had went back to the floor as soon as the chips had been handed over to the cashier. "Next time we chase counterfeiters," he mumbled into his embedded mic. "We need to make sure they go somewhere that we can turn a damn profit at."

_"Will do,"_ Natalia said softly in his ear.

Bond saw her at a table playing blackjack. The rest of the players at the table were watching her as she asked the dealer for a hit. The table burst into spontaneous applause at the outcome of the hand, apparently it had been in her favor. One thing Bond noticed was Lukashenka had turned away from watching the rest of the games, he was now watching the blackjack table and Natalia especially. She looked away from the table and made eye contact with Lukasshenka, seemingly by chance. She quickly looked away, a bit embarrassed to have caught the man's eye. She makes it look too damn easy, thought Bond.

He made his way to the bar opposite the cashier's cage and ordered his usual served drink in his preferred style. He was halfway through it when he felt movement behind him.

"You beat me," said a soft voice in a European accent Bond couldn't place. Like French, but with a touch of Belgian. He turned and saw the woman standing behind him. Her giant chaperone couldn't be seen, but Bond was certain he was close by and watching his charge very carefully.

"I'm sorry," he replied, sipping his drink. "It's not often I get to beat a woman, so you'll forgive me if I indulge when I get a chance."

"Gin and tonic," she said as she slipped on to the seat beside him.

The nearby bartender nodded and looked at Bond. "Another, sir?"

"Yes, please." He waited until the barman had scuttled off before talking again. "So, what brings you to Belarus?"

"Work."

"What kind of work?"

"Finance. I have a head for numbers, so my company sends me here to do a bit of money management."

There seemed as if there was some playfulness in her tone, thought Bond. Was she just flirting? Or being extra coy because she thought her chosen words were especially clever?

"Funny, me too," he said, polishing off the last of his martini. "I must admit, though, my job doesn't come with a giant watchdog."

"Belarus is a rough country. The people I work for want me safe."

"Odd, you seem like the type of woman who could take care of herself."

"Oh, I can, I just like using him to scare card players into folding."

The drinks arrived. Bond took his drink and nodded towards her, holding the martini up towards her.

"A toast. To the reliability of numbers, especially the number nine in baccarat, and to the stalwart Englishmen who never fold."

"And may the next time you play, the cards cut your hands to shit."

They clinked glasses and each took long drinks.

"I'm in the penthouse suit at the hotel across the street," she said without preamble. She touched the bar with her hand, placing a plastic keycard there. "Here. I plan on being there in twenty minutes. Perhaps you'll join me."

"Perhaps," said Bond. He slid the keycard off the bar surface and into his jacket pocket. "Will your lapdog be joining us?"

"He has his own room... but if that sort of thing is your fetish, then I'm sure he can oblige you."

"As amazing as the memories would be, I think I'll pass on him."

"Twenty minutes." She finished off her drink and laid it on the bar upside down. "See you then."

"Leaving me to pay the tab?" He asked in a mock defensive tone.

"You can afford it," she said with a wink.

Bond watched her walk off, her hips swaying with each step. She looked back at Bond and smiled as she disappeared into the casino lobby. His mobile chimed an alert. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the data on the screen. The results of the facial scan were complete. The woman was Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna, born in Luxembourg to a family of wealthy aristocrats. She had a short file filled with a handful of arrests. They were from when she was a teenager, joy riding and speeding in Paris, cocaine possession in Madrid, things of that nature. Interpol's files said she had once been part of a fringe anarchist group in Portugal, but the intelligence file chalked it up to her rebelling from her rich family. In the seven years since turning eighteen, nothing on her record at all. Bond wasn't sure what to make of that. Sins of the youth were common, he had his own run-ins with the law before joining the service. Had she really changed her ways? Whatever the nature of her business here in Belarus was, the Interpol file made no mention of any current employment.

Bond opened the file on the giant and wasn't too surprised by what he saw. He was The Russian, no other name or alias. He had been a fierce enforcer in the Moscow underworld for years, linked to dozens of beatings and murders all over Eastern Europe. His lack of record was chalked up to his potential role in the Cold War. MI6 and Interpol both believed he had been a KGB assassin prior to the fall of the USSR. The Russian's last known movements were in Moscow two years ago. Since then, he had fallen off the grid. The official line with Interpol was that he had finally be assassinated by a rival, but it appeared he had wound up with a new employer all together. Was he working for the Baroness? Or were they both working for someone higher up the ladder?

Bond finished his drink and paid for his two martinis and the Baroness' gin and tonic. He got up from the bar and looked back to the blackjack table. Natalia had racked up an impressive amount of chips. Probably come out to five Euros, Bond figured. Even more impressive was the fact that Lukashenka was still watching her, this time standing close behind the dealer.

"I have an in with the woman," he said quietly.

_"And whose bed will you be using?"_

"Hers. But just because-," he started, but stopped when he heard her laughing softly over the line.

_"Go. Find out what you can. I'll do the same with our friend, Lukashenka. Have fun, my little manwhore."_

Bond thought of taking offense at the manwhore crack, or arguing against the little jab. instead, he looked himself over in the bar's mirror. Satisfied that he looked presentable, he headed for the casino entrance. His hand felt for the keycard in his pocket.

As he walked towards the door, the man in the tuxedo at the far end of the bar stood up. He paid for the drink he had nursed for the last hour and walked towards the lobby. He watched Bond as he disappeared out the door. Good, thought Kraven. Going outside the casino now meant he was free to be loud as he wanted when he took the secret agent's life.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**"Looks Like He Found His Floor..."**

**Minsk, Belarus  
0134 Local Time**

The Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna walked through her dimly lit penthouse. The suite's current light source was from the moon that shone through from the skylight above. She had kicked her heels off at the door and now padded barefoot across the plush carpet floor. In one hand was a chilled bottle of wine, a 1990 Camuzet Vosne Romanee, and in the other hand were two long-stemmed wineglasses. She came into the suite's master bedroom and stopped in front of the ornate four-poster bed with the golden satin sheets. She placed the wine and glasses on the bedsheet before sliding the shoulder straps of her gown off. The black fabric pooled down at her feet. Her pale and lean body was clad in black lace undergarments, a black demi-cup brassière and matching boyshorts with a small red bow in the front.

The Baroness placed the bottle and glasses on the nightstand beside her tablet. She tossed the sheets of the bed back and climbed in. She ruffled her raven black hair and leaned against the pillow to wait for the arrival of the Englishman she had just only met a half hour earlier. Her contacts had warned her of doing the thing she was about to do. Keeping a low profile was key to the success of Operation: Midas, and jumping into bed with a strange man or two could mean trouble. The Russian was in adjoining room, her personal protection if the man got rough or it turned out he was something other than what he said he was. Even if the Russian wasn't shadowing her, there was something about the man. He made the risk worth it. His blue-gray eyes and the air of sheer confidence around him. If he made love the same way he gambled, with the same cool demeanor and headstrong decisiveness, then she would be in for a memorable night. A soft smile crossed her lips at the hope that she would make out better in the bedroom than she had at the baccarat table.

There came a soft buzz on the nightstand, a soft light cutting through the dimness. Her tablet flashed an alert, an incoming call. The caller's picture was blank. The caller ID gave only one character for the identity: 2. She leaned out and pulled the tablet from the bed and took the call.

"Yes," she said, holding the tablet up so the pinhole camera wouldn't show her current state of undress.

The stoic face of Number 2 stared back at her, his rich olive skin covered with sweat. Just over his shoulder was a blooming and ornate garden illuminated with LED lights strung up on poles. Wherever he was, it was far removed from the cold night outside the Baroness' window.

_"We have a problem. An interloper with the British Secret Service."_

Her nails clicked against the back of the tablet in agitation. She had a sneaking suspicion Number 2's interloper and her soon to-be lover were connected. Number 2's face disappeared from the screen, replaced by a black and white surveillance photo of a man in a peacoat walking down a sidewalk. He had short, jet black hair with high cheek bones and a lopsided mouth. It was too far away to see his eyes, but she knew they were same blue-grey.

_"His name is Bond. James Bond. Have you see this man?"_

"Yes," she said. That was as far as the Baroness was willing to go. She had disobeyed SPECTRE's orders by a man up to her room. The organization did not suffer disobedience lightly, especially if the man she was planning to sleep with was a secret agent. The photo disappeared and Number 2's stone face was back. She felt like he was trying to read her body language.

"Orders?"

_"You and the Russian are to leave the city as soon as possible. When's will the casino have the next batch of cash ready?"_

"Within the hour. It was to be flown out to the site in the morning."

_"Move it up to tonight. The two of you will fly aboard the plane to the site."_

"What about our plans involving the US currency?"

_"It will have to wait. We have at least three times the bare minimum to carry out Midas' European operation."_

"And the spy?"

_"Being taken care of as we speak. If you see him again, kill him on sight. No playful banter, no toying with him. Two shots to the head. We will speak when you're out of Belarus and on the ground in Switzerland." _

"Yes, sir."

_"One more thing... Lukashenka. How much does he know?"_

"Next to nothing. He thinks we are upscale counterfeiters, but he knows nothing of Midas."

_"He has seen your face, knows one of your aliases. Kill him before you depart."_

"Understood."

The Baroness hung up and placed the tablet on the nightstand with a sigh. She rolled over in bed and reached behind her pillow. Her hand came out from behind it with a tiny Beretta 418 in her hands. Grumbling to herself, the Baroness tucked the gun into the waistband of her shorts and climbed out of bed to get dressed. As she crossed across the carpet, there was a loud crash from somewhere far below that was followed by a soft shaking of the room.

"What the hell?"

Bond sat in the passenger's seat of his rental car and dug through the glove compartment. If he was going to bed this woman tonight, he was going to need some protection. He found what he was looking for, pulling his Walther PPS from the glove compartment. With it he pulled out a dissolvable node. When the time came, he would stick the node into his mouth and let the tiny nanomachines dissolve on the tip his tongue. In the throes of passion, he would then kiss or lick the Baroness somewhere on her body and mark her with the nanites. In turn, the microscopic particles would act as a GPS tracker. He tucked the Walther it into his shoulder holster, placed the node in his coat pocket, and checked his mobile one more time. No reply from Q yet. He had used the phone's scanning feature to map out every detail of the Euros he had won in the casino. Q's people would examine them thoroughly to determine if they were counterfeits, and if so of what quality the fakes were exactly.

With no word from Q, Bond climbed out the car and walked through the casino parking lot towards the posh hotel that lay across the street from the Belaya Vezha. He went through the lobby and caught the lift. He pressed the top button and waited for the doors to close. They were nearly shut when a hand reached through and caused the automatic doors to spring back open. A dark-haired man in a tuxedo gave Bond his thanks and selected his floor before the doors finally closed.

Bond gave him a glance out the corner of his eye. His tuxedo was of a baggy cut, but he could tell the cloth hid a muscular frame underneath. His dark hair, which was gelled and combed back, had bits of gray in it. There was a thick black goatee on his face. There was something oddly familiar about him, and Bond was overcome with the sense of déjà vu by just glancing at the man's profile. He kept his eyes forward, but his body language told Bond that he was on-alert and focused on something. A cold, numb sensation began in the pit of Bond's stomach. He was not a believer of things like a sixth sense or telepathy, but his time in the navy and in MI6 had given him an acute sense of recognizing danger and when it was imminent.

He flung himself backwards just as the man's large fist moved to strike his side. Bond grabbed his wrist with one hand to try to twist it backwards behind his back, but the man's muscles tightened and flexed. He smacked Bond hard against the face with the open palm of his free hand. He reeled backwards and slammed against the lift's wall. While he recovered, the assassin slapped the emergency stop button at the tenth floor and began to encroach towards Bond.

Bond pulled his Walther from its shoulder holster and was preparing to aim it when the man's powerful hands slapped it out of his grip. It clattered to the floor as the man got his hands around Bond's neck and lifted him upwards. The top of his head smashed against the top of the lift, knocking a light fixture loose and popping the florescent lightbulb. The small space was now basked in half-shadow as the man throttled Bond's neck. His tough hands scratched at Bond's throat the way sandpaper scratches at wood. He kept his eyes forward and watched Bond with gleeful anticipation as he squeezed the life out of him.

Flailing, Bond's foot connected with the man's chest. The shock caused him to drop his prey and stumble backwards holding his chest. Bond slammed against the floor of the lift and coughed violently as air returned to his lungs. He looked up and saw the man sucking for air as well. The Walter was in the far corner beside the assassin. Bond stood just as the man was standing.

"Suppose we can't talk this out like men?" he asked the man in a rough voice.

"Talking is for cowards," he said in a thick Russian accent. "But we will talk like the real men used to."

Like that, he was back on Bond with his wide fist cutting through the air. Bond held his arm up and blocked the blow with his left forearm. The blow sent shockwaves of pain through his arm, but it didn't affect his aim as he struck the man in the face with a right hook. The blow knocked the man unbalanced, and Bond kept up the barrage with a series to body blows to the chest and sides. He had the man backed up against the side of the lift, but any advantage he had evaporated when he grabbed one of Bond's blows with an open palm and flipped him hard on to the lift floor. The wind rushed out of Bond's lungs and he gasped for air. While he struggled, the man stood over him.

"Not bad," he said with a slight bow. "I have met better, but not many. You were nearly a worthy opponent, Mister Bond, but you were not good enough."

The man raised his leg and was bringing it down when Bond rolled to his right. The foot came down on the lift's metal floor. Bond swept his legs, knocking the man to the ground. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the Walter on the floor. Bond rolled in its direction, picking it up in his hand. Before he could turn, he felt the powerful assassin's hands around the back of his neck. Bond swung the gun behind his head and felt the gun strike the man square on the head.

The blow didn't seem to faze him, as his powerful hands reached out to take the gun from Bond. They struggled with each other, rolling in the floor. In their tug of war, one of them squeezed the gun's trigger. It went off straight up in the air, first a three round burst then the rest of the rounds followed. Bond kicked away from the killer and yanked the Walther from his grip. Turning, he struck him again with the gun barrel, this time straight across the face. He screamed out as the gun's iron sight scratched across his eye.

There came a loud metallic twang from above, followed by a groan. Both Bond and the assassin looked up. The gunshots had pierced the lift's ceiling, one of them must have damaged the cables that operated the lift. Both Bond and his would-be killer exchanged looks before they tried to strike. While the assassin reared back for another punch, Bond used his left hand to poke him in the scratched eye. He screamed again, falling back to the floor. There was another twang, this one shaking the lift. Bond carefully stood while his killer rolled on the ground. He tried to pry open the lift's doors as gently as he could while the man tried to regain his composure. He was on his hands in knees when Bond kicked him in the face and dropped him to the floor. With a wedge big enough to pass through, Bond stomped down on the lift's floor hard before he slid through the opening. He came through the doors and out on the tenth floor just as the lift's cable gave a loud twang and a snap, the man's scream was loud at first, but got smaller and smaller as the car fell down towards the lobby.

Breathing hard, Bond bent down and rubbed his sore neck with his hands. He heard a crash and a rumble far below him. "Looks like he found his floor," he said softly to himself.

Bond stood and hurried down the hallway towards the stairwell. From there, he hurried down to the eighth floor and caught the second lift down towards the lobby. His tongue touched the back tooth in his mouth in a careful sequence that activated the microphone.

"007 to Black Widow," he wheezed. "Where are you?"

_"Lukashenka's office,"_ she replied. _"I think I may have a lead."_

Natalia sat on the edge of Lukashenka's office and gave the man her best seductive smile. He had invited her up here after personally escorting her to the cashier's cage. Her winnings, which she had thought was substantial, had only turned out to cover to ten Euros. Lukashenaka had used the excuse of extending her house credit to invite her up here. And now, here she was. The office was mid-sized and sparsely decorated with a sofa and a few landscape paintings of the Belarusian countryside. What caught Natalia's eye was behind Lukashenka. A large back of television monitors, some twenty in all, that displayed the live security camera feeds around the casino. Curiously, there was a row of four televisions that were off.

"So, my dear," Lukashenka asked in Russian, pulling a bottle of vodka from his desk. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes," she said playfully. "You know how we Russians love our vodka."

"I do indeed." He pulled a pair of shot glasses from the same desk drawer and filled them with the clear liquid.

"It is not just you, my dear. Here in Belarus, we can put them back just as good as you Russians can."

They held up the shots and clinked glasses before downing the liquid in one gulp. Natalia made a slight face. Despite her Russian heritage, she had never fully developed a taste for the stuff. When Lukashenka saw her face, he laugh heartily. "I thought you Russians loved your vodka?"

"We do," she said with a slight grin. "But goddamn the taste."

"Anybody who likes vodka for the taste is a damn fool. Tell me, would you be more comfortable if we were to move." He nodded towards the sofa across the room and she nodded.

"I would. May I ask a question?"

"Of course," he said as he stood and grabbed the vodka and glasses.

"Those cameras? Why do they show nothing?"

"They aren't in use because that part of the building is under construction. Our basement was damaged by a flood last spring."

She flopped down on the couch, kicking her shoes off as Lukashenka sat down beside her. He placed his right hand on her left knee and rubbed softly against the wine-colored fabric. "If this makes you uncomfortable, let me know."

"It doesn't," she said in a husky voice. "In fact, if you would come closer..."

Lukashenka leaned back and towards her as Natalia parted her lips. She inched her face closer to his as she placed her left hand on Lukashenka's cheek. She slid the palm of her hand down and cocked her wrist at the man's neck. There was a soft pop of compressed air as something flew from her bracelet. A tiny dart struck Lukashenka in the neck. He recoiled in pain and began to speak, but his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he slumped against the couch. He was snoring heavily by the time Natalia picked herself up off the couch and slid her shoes back on.

_"007 to Black Widow,"_came Bond's ragged voice. _"Where are you?"_

"Lukashenka's office," replied Natalia. "I think I may have a lead."

_"I found something out as well."_

"Judging from how out of breath you are, I assume it's where your new friend is ticklish."

_"I never made it up to her room. On the ride up, a man tried to kill me."_

"Are you okay? Where's the assassin?"

_"I'm fine, can't say the same for him. I gave him the shaft."_

"What do you mean?"

_"I gave him the _shaft_, if you know what I mean."_

"No, I don't... Do you mean you cheated him or?"

_"I dropped him down a bloody lift shaft,"_ yelled an annoyed Bond.

"Oh. Why not just say that?"

_"Because it's not a pun... Never mind. I don't know what's going on, but I assume the woman and her large friend are at the center of it. What's your lead?"_

"Meet me outside the casino in ten minutes and I'll show you."

Natalia disconnected and checked Lukashenka one last time. The tranquilizer she had shot him with would keep him unconscious for at least another six hours. She took the vodka bottle from his lap and took a long swig off of it before pocketing the spare shot glass in her purse. Natalia turned to leave, satisfied that it appeared like Lukashenka had passed out while drinking alone. She calmly walked out the office and headed towards the bright lights and loud noises of the casino floor.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**The Maker's Mark**

**Minsk, Belarus**  
**0155 Local Time**

Steam curled from Bond's mouth as he stood in the shadows of the parking garage opposite the bright lights of the Belaya Vezha Casino. Just down the road, a crowd had gathered around a parked ambulance. A loud, two-tone squeal filled the air. A Minsk police car sped down the street and came to a stop beside the ambulance. A uniformed officer and plain clothes man got out and hurried through the crowd into the lobby of the hotel. Bond stamped his feet to keep warm and ran the last few minutes over in his head. A man, a very strong and proficient one, had tried to kill him in the lift. Had it not been for a stray bullet and quick thinking on Bond's part, he may have met his end in the lift. He reached out and gingerly placed a hand on his face. It was tender to the touch. The swelling around his cheeks had started, the pain he felt around his left eye indicated there was a black eye forthcoming.

There came a chirp from his pocket. His mobile was ringing. Bond slipped it out and looked down at the screen. The special phone had a half-dozen numbers programmed in it for Bond to use for cover identities, but the line being rung was the phone's main one. The encrypted line's number was known only to a select few personnel at Six.

"Yes," he asked as he answered.

_"Good evening, 007,"_ the cheerful voice of Q replied back at him. There was a soft hum underneath his voice as he spoke. The encryption program Q and Bond both used would distort their voices to the point that any electronic eavesdroppers wouldn't be able to make sense out of their conversation. _"And I hope it is a good one, or at least worth it. They called me in from home to help you."_

"Sorry to pry you from a special night with your online girlfriend..."

_"Destiny understands,"_ the young man said with an exaggerated sigh. _"I'm married to my job first and foremost. She understands. Bit of a workaholic herself, always busy at the Pink Hippo, the club she dances out. Now, about these Euros you sent me... How certain are you that they're counterfeit?"_

"Almost certainly. A casino owned by the head of a counterfeiting ring. It's the perfect cover for passing off phony bills."

_"Yes, and these bills are perfect... almost. They're the right size and shape, have proper watermarks, and it's made of the proper paper. Check your screen."_

Bond pulled the phone away from his ear and looked as an email from Q flashed on the screen. He opened it and saw a close-up shot of multi-colored fibers. Printed on the miniscule fibers over and over again was the flag of the European Union, twelve stars in a circle.

"What am I looking at?"

_"The maker's mark,"_ replied Q. _"A microscopic trademark recently introduced. Every Euro printed in the last six months has these on them. The problem with these bill in particular is the issue date on the side reads 2010."_

"Then they are phony."

Bond's casino hunch had paid off. Lukashenka was counterfeiting the bills. Had he engineered the raid in Hamburg? No, Bond thought, that was much too professional and well-run for a man like him. Lukashenka may have been the big fish in the small pond that was Minsk, but in the lake of Europe he was just another two-bit guppy gangster. Someone was using him and his people. Was it the woman and her giant friend? Had she sent the killer after him?

_"Yes they are fake,"_ Q said to bring him back to the moment at hand. _"The only problem is that currently, the maker's mark is only used in bulk shipments to and from countries in the Eurozone. The governments are the only ones with the technology to see the mark. Don't think many restaurants keep an electron microscope handy to run bills through."_

"Right," he said as he saw movement out the corner of his eye. "I'll call you back if I have something else."

_"Who needs Destiny when I have you, 007,"_ Q said dryly. _"As always, I await your every beck and call."_

Bond hung up and tucked the phone in his pocket. Natalia appeared out of the shadows in front of him. Her long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail and her fabulous dress and figure were hidden underneath a red wool-pleated trench coat. Her hands were in her pockets, steam rising from her mouth. Natalia's eyes surveyed Bond, taking in the damage to his face and neck. Wordlessly, she reached out and touched Bond's swollen left cheek with a gloved hand. Bond's mind lingered on the soft caress of her hand. For a hardened field agent like Natalia, Bond was only a bit surprised to find she had a gentle touch.

"Ouch," she said with sympathy.

"You should see the other fellow. I gave him the-"

"Yes, yes, insert dark comedy pun here," she said dismissively before tucking her hand back into the jacket pocket. "I think Lukashenka is printing his money in the basement. He had cameras trained on every square inch of the casino, save for the basement."

"Where is Lukashenka now?"

"Sleeping it off," she said playfully before holding up her wrist, showing Bond the special bracelet on her left arm.

"Good. We'll go back to his office and from there we can figure out how to get to the basement."

Natalia and Bond walked across the catwalk hung above the casino floor. The sentries at the catwalk entrance had let them pass after some brief convincing from the SHIELD agent. They had already saw her go up with Lukashenka, and they had seen Bond gambling earlier in the night. Bond looked down as they walked towards the office. Even if it was the middle of the night, the gambling was in full swing below. The Belaya Vezha was open 24/7, but this was a weekend night. This had one of the week's busiest nights.

Natalia opened the door marked "Private" and led Bond inside to Lukashenka's office. She made a beeline for the desk while he surveyed the room. It matched the rest of the casino, cheap with the outer appearance of ornate. Bond's eyes drifted towards the sofa, but stopped when he saw the crime boss.

"Natalia," he said softly. "When you said you took care of Lukashenka..."

He walked towards the man and looked down. He sat slumped on the sofa, his neck at an unnatural right angle. His eyes bulged wide open, his face frozen in a twisted look of pain.

"I did not do that," she said from behind Bond. "Someone must have been in here since I left."

The door leading into the office swung open. They turned and saw a short, fat man in a suit. He yelled something in Belarusian when he saw Lukashenka's dead body. He fumbled with something at his side, a gun Bond assumed, but he stopped when a soft pop echoed through the room. He clutched at his fat neck before falling backwards and hitting the floor.

"That is what I did," Natalia said, her gauntlet raised like a gun. "He was supposed to sleep until the morning."

Bond turned back to the dead body and bent down. His neck was black and blue from severe bruising. The picture started to become clear to Bond when he saw the large size of the marks on Lukashenka's neck. "The Russian," he said to Natalia. "The Baronesses bodyguard. The size of these marks on his neck, that's the only man who could make marks like this."

"I found out how to get to the basement," she said from the desk. "Come, let's go."

"Yes, but first."

Bond stood and walked over to the sleeping thug. A quick pat down revealed a snubnosed.38 revolver with six shots, an extra moonclip with six more shots was in the man's jacket. Bond tucked the .38 into the empty shoulder holster. It fit in roughly the same space, but not as smoothly as the Walther. The man also had a keycard clipped to his right breast pocket. Bond pocketed the keycard and moonclip before nodding at Natalia.

The guard's footfalls echoed off the black and white linoleum floor of the casino's gray-painted corridor. This back passage led to the Belaya Vezha's most important room: the count room. There, the total of the night's take would be counted and calculated. Rubles, euros, pounds, and lira were all counted and then added to the casino's hordes of cash. On a given night the casino took in nearly a hundred thousand Euros in gambling wins, which translated to a small fortune in rubles. Two guards patrolled each end of the corridor, two guards monitored the counters in the counting room, and a guard was positioned at the door that led to the basement. As heavily protected as the count room, the guards were also instructed to let not one soul through into the basement unless they were personally escorted by Lukashenka. The workers and the rest of the men who operated out of the basement entered through an access tunnel that led to an opening a block away.

Stifling a yawn, the guard turned a corner to the next leg of the hallway. He stopped in his tracks as a small, strong hand drove itself into his face palm first. The blow sent him up against a wall. He saw a redheaded woman in a red dress in front of him, a black-haired man in a suit and tie standing behind her. He began to sound a warning to the rest of the men standing sentry, but the woman drove two quick fists into his solar plexus. He gasped for air and slid to the floor. The last thing he saw before the black void of unconsciousness was the heel of the woman's left pump rushing towards his face.

"Two down," said Natalia.

Bond nodded and looked around the hall before glancing at his watch. The steel Omega Seamaster continued to emit its electronic distorting pulse at five second intervals. Any cameras or other recording devices would be disabled long enough for Bond and Natalia to pass by without detection. Safe in the fact that the watch was still working, Bond motioned forward down the hall. She stepped over the unconscious sentry spread out on the floor and held her right arm out, ready to use the tranquilizer darts if trouble showed up. For Bond's part, he kept his right hand up and ready to pull the confiscated revolver if it came to that. They passed by a closed-door with warnings written on it in both Russian and Belarusian.

"Count room," she said without looking at it. "More guards are probably inside."

Without a doubt, thought Bond. They pressed on, coming to another bend in the corridor. There were voices coming from down the hallway, low and at ease. Natalia pressed against the wall and listened in on the back and forth of the conversation. "Just idle chit-chat," she whispered. "Talking about the weather and sports."

Bond wished that he could see down the corridor at what was waiting for them there. There were two voices, yes, but there could be three or four men standing watch over whatever it was they had been assigned to. And even if there were just two, they may both be armed with automatic weapons. Bond's stolen .38 and Natalia's trick jewelry would be no match for the rapid fire of a Kalashnikov.

"Uh-oh," she said softly. "They're talking about the guard I knocked out. He was due to check in a minute ago. They're wondering where he is... Damn. Now they're talking about calling someone to look into it."

Bond scratched the back of his right ear and ran through options in his head. Their options, which were already limited in the narrow space of the hallway, were becoming steadily more restricted. Now, Bond could only see one feasible option. It wasn't ideal, but considering the circumstances and their mission nothing short of Bond having an assault rifle of his own would make him comfortable with what he was about to do.

"Stay low," he said to Natalia. He pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster. "I stay upright, gun drawn to get their attention. You tag them with two darts and send them to dreamland."

"Okay," she said. Even if her face would not betray her uncertainty, Bond could hear the apprehension in her tone.

Taking a deep breath, Bond ventured out into the hallway, the gun raised chest high. Twenty yards away, there were two men in front of beige metal doors. They were dressed in black suits and white shirts with no tie. They each had MP5s slung around their shoulders. The sight of Bond standing in front of them threw the two men into a stunned silence for at least two seconds. When they realized what they were seeing was real, they began to move towards their weapons. There was a flash of movement below Bond. On her knees, Natalia slid across the linoleum and fired four shots from her gauntlets. Both men recoiled from unseen blow and twirled sideways. One of them smashed against the wall and slumped to the floor while the other one fell flat on his face.

"Excellent shot," Bond said as he helped Natalia up.

"Even better bait," she replied with a smile.

His gun still out, Bond led the way down to the doors. He stepped over the sleeping men while Natalia picked an MP5 off one of the unconscious bodies and slung the strap on her shoulder. With his left hand, Bond pushed open the metal door and went through the threshold into the basement. The noise was the first thing he noticed. The loud and constant din of heavy machinery. The sight was something else altogether. The door opened up to a short row of stairs that led to a wide open space that was empty, save for a dozen printing presses, work stations, and forklifts. A long catwalk encircled the area from above, an office with glass windows sat just off the metal walkway. Dozens of men busied themselves with the work of the presses and hauling pallets from the presses to a group of bay doors on the other side of the room. The pallets were, Bond noticed, stacked with euros.

The noise was so encompassing, no one had heard them entering. Bond turned to Natalia and motioned up towards the catwalk. She nodded and followed him to the stairs that led upwards. From the height, the noise of the machinery was softer and allowed them to speak to each other without shouting.

"How much do you think that is?" she asked.

Bond looked down at the pallets and did some quick and rudimentary addition.

"Billions, maybe more if they're only printing the five hundred bank-note."

They slowed as they approached the office. The glass windows showed that no one was visible inside. With the gun down by his waist, Bond went through the doorway into the office. He deactivated the pulse on his watch when he saw the computer resting on a desk. Beside the desk, on a pile of aging notebooks and scratch paper, was a square object that appeared as if it was the motherboard of a computer. Two cables ran from the object and plugged in to the computer's USB ports.

"Watch the door," he said to Natalia as he slid behind the desk.

A quick search of the desktop and files showed that it was an ordinary computer with no incriminating files. It wasn't until Bond activated the E drive, kicking the motherboard beside him on, that he found what he was looking for. Images flashed on the screen, pictures and stills of the different Euro banknotes from every conceivable angle. After the euro, the US hundred-dollar bill went through the same procedure, pictures of it that showed the various watermarks and security devices that prevented counterfeiting.

"We have it," he said, looking up.

"Good," said Natalia. She kept her eyes outwards, scanning the catwalk and the workers below.

Pulling out his phone, Bond synched his wireless tooth mic with the phone and connected with the number he was to dial as an absolute necessary. There came three rings, then a voice picked up.

_"Universal Export,"_ said the bored voice of Walter McCaskill, MI6's current night duty officer.

"Yes, I'm wondering if you happen to import any of those wonderful Manchester apples."

The keywords were the last two in the sentence. Manchester apple. MA. Mission Accomplished.

_"No, sir,"_ said McCaskill, his voice taking on interest. _"But if I can have your name and number, I'm sure we will get back to you soon."_

"Of course. My name is Beach, and my number is 007-" Bond paused slightly, making sure McCaskill got the designation. "-55 625880."

_"Thank you, Mr. Beach. Someone will certainly get back to you soon."_

The line went dead. M or Tanner would be calling within the hour, wanting his full report. Bond tucked the phone into his jacket before he stood. He pulled the large drive from the USB ports and held it in his hands.

"Remember," said Natalia. "If things go bad, destroy the hard drive. Better to have it ruined than back in enemy hands."

They hurried across the catwalk and were on the stairs down to the floor when they stopped, the shaking of the catwalk above distracting them. Bond turned and saw the Russian standing at the landing above them, a ruthless grin on his face. Below them, the Baroness came into view. She wore black combat fatigues and combat boots, a tiny pistol in her hand. Behind her, more men with guns were approaching the foot of the stairs.

"Hello, James," she said sweetly. "Mind telling me what you're doing here?"

"Well," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "I figured if I couldn't fuck you, I'd at least fuck you over."


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**A Kiss Before Dying**

**Minsk, Belarus**

**0243 Local Time**

Bond and Natalia sat in the uneasy silence of the Hummer. They sat in the backseat, their arms behind their backs with plastic zip ties around their wrists. The Baroness drove while the Russian had managed to pack his gigantic frame into the passenger seat. The giant had cocked the rearview mirror to the side, offering him a clear view of the two secret agents in the backseat. The SUV brought up the rear in a four car convoy that comprised of two flatbed trucks loaded with covered pallets that the twin Hummers bookended on either side.

Both Bond and Natalia had been patted down shortly after their surrender. The men had taken Bond's stolen 38 and Natalia's MP7. They took the various gadgets and devices on their person. But, much to both Natalia and Bond's relief, they had left her bracelets. The ruse that they were simple jewelry fooled the Belarusian criminals. After being stripped of obvious weapons and electronics, they were bound by their wrists and shoved into the backseat of the Hummer and waited close to ten minutes before the convoy left the casino basement. The cars rolled through the bay doors and into a dark access tunnel that came out at a street a few blocks away from the casino.

Now, the convoy was leaving Minsk behind. The tall buildings were shrinking and becoming residential apartments and homes The narrow streets grew wider as the sidewalks gave way to front yards and garages. The suburbs loomed ahead. The bluetooth attached to the Baroness' ear rang and she answered. There was a quick exchange between her and some unheard voice. She spoke Russian, and Bond could only guess the subject of the call wasn't dire by her body language.

"We are almost there," Natalia said softly into Bond's ear. "Someone asked her for the keycode to a gate."

Bond nodded and looked towards the front. His eyes met the Russian's in the mirror before the man broke eye contact to look elsewhere. The cocky demeanor he had displayed less than thirty minutes earlier had seemed to have faded as the minutes passed. Bond wasn't sure what had changed him, he and Natalia were under their thumb even more than they were before. There was a back and forth conversation between the two people up front, again in Russian. The Baroness' body language was guarded and stiff as she gave the man a curt reply.

"He wonders," said Natalia. "Why they did not kill us at the casino and dump our bodies. He says they are under orders to-,"

"Enough," barked a deep voice, a large hand flew out from the front seat and struck Natalia across the face with an open hand.

For the first time, the Russian spoke. It was a voice that matched its owner. Gravelly and deep, a thick Russian accent. As shocking as it was to hear him, his actions against Natalia were more so. Bond had sat there in a stun silence while Natalia stared seemingly impassively at the giant man, ignoring the already swelling upper lip and blood that dripped from her mouth. To Bond, it was a stare he was familiar with. The SHIELD agent was running down in her mind, all the different ways she could kill the Russian.

The Russian could not match her gaze and turned to look at the Baroness. He grumbled to her in his native tongue before she said something snappy back. After that, there was silence. Ten minutes later, the truck in front of them flashed its brake lights and began to slow. The cars pulled off from the main street on to muddy road with a light layer of snow on either side. The road cut through the countryside, passing through thickets of trees and the underbrush that encroached on both sides of the road. After another ten minutes on the road, the convoy came out into a clearing. A large meadow with short-cut grass. In the middle of the meadow, running lights illuminating it in the night, was a tarmac runway. A single plane hangar was off to the side of the tarmac. Resting on the runway was a McDonnell Douglas MD-11 cargo jet plane.

The rest of the convoy headed towards the jet while the Baroness peeled away from the group and drove towards the hangar. Bond turned his head to the side and watched the flatbeds as they passed by. The men in trucks were busy unloading the pallets off the flatbeds and loading them up onto a motorized dolly. Once the dolly was full, the pallets filled with counterfeit money were motored up the plane's loading ramp to be offloaded somewhere in the cargo hold.

They drove through the open door of the small hangar and came to a stop inside the empty hangar. The Baroness killed the engine and climbed out the Hummer, walking towards the hangar entrance. Meanwhile, the Russian got out and opened the back doors. With one hand, he scooped Natalia from the back seat and slung her over one shoulder. He marched around to the other side and did the same to Bond, carrying both of them across the hangar towards a pair of chairs.

He plopped them down in a pair of facing steel chairs and stood before them while the Baroness and another man approached. The man with the Baroness had the MP7 in one hand, the .38 in the other.

"You know which one they each used?" she asked the man at her side.

"Yes," he said. With his accent, it sounded more like "yues" to Bond.

"Make it look like they killed each other," growled the Russian. "Then find a place to dispose of the bodies. Somewhere where they will be found soon."

"This won't work," said Bond. "My people know who both of you are," he bluffed. It was only a slight bluff. If he did wind up dead, MI6 would comb through his security access history and find out that he had run the facial recognition search hours before his death. The results of that search would turn up files on both the Russian and his charge.

"By the time they know you're dead," said the Baroness with a cold smile. "It will be too late."

"Shame," said Bond with what sounded like genuine remorse. "I was so looking forward to sleeping with you."

"And I with you," she said candidly.

"Could you...," he started and then stopped, appearing embarrassed at what he was about to say. "Could you grant me a last wish. Well, two exactly."

"What?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

"A last kiss." At this, Bond blushed. "I mean, call me a romantic... but..."

"No...," she said. "I could do that."

It wasn't so much an act of kindness, as it was an act of curiosity. She hadn't been able to bed the man properly, but at least here she could get an indication of what it would be like.

"I have a mint," said Bond. "It was in my pocket. I think one of your men took it. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to die with fresh breath and a kiss on my lips."

The man beside the Baroness nodded as she looked at him. He reached into his pocket and produced the tiny node that held the GPS tracking nanites. The Russian stepped forward, shaking his head.

"I do not like this," he said with narrowed eyes. "What is that mint made of?"

"He's dead anyway," said the Baroness. "Even if it's poison, he'll just die before we can kill him."

The Baroness took the node from the man's hand and walked towards Bond. She bent down and popped it into his mouth. Bond held it on the tip of the tongue, feeling it dissolve quickly from the heat of his mouth. The Baroness gave him a soft smile and leaned forward, wrapping a hand around his neck. They leaned into each other, their lips parted. They connected and Bond slowly ventured his tongue forward, caressing hers gently. He made sure that as much of the nanites had connected with her tongue as possible. She was good kisser, he observed, soft where it counted and firm where it was appropriate.

After what felt like a minute, the Baroness pulled away from Bond and stood. She wiped her mouth and looked down at him.

"Pity we couldn't finish this."

"Quite," was all he said.

She turned to the man she had brought along. "Remember, leave their jewelry, phones, and cash on them. It must not look like a robbery at all." Then she looked down at Bond, only giving him a polite nod. "Goodbye," she said.

With the Russian in tow, the Baroness turned and began to walk towards the hangar opening. Once they were around the corner, the man left behind stepped forward. He had a cruel smile on his face and he waved the MP7 with glee.

"No kiss for me?" he asked sarcastically. "No worry. I give you one instead."

The man came behind Natalia and crouched down. He was level with her as he held the MP7 out and aimed it for Bond's head. Bond looked down, Natalia's wrists were nearly lined up perfectly to shoot the man in the foot. Almost.

"If you're going to kill me," said Bond with agitation. "Make it look like she was actually holding the gun. The way you stand, it's like she held the weapon with her goddamn armpits."

The man looked at Bond, and then down at the ground. He took in the words before mumbling to himself and leaning forward to make his shot look more legitimate.

"That's it," said Bond, meeting Natalia's emerald eyes. "Fire away."

There was a puff of air, followed by the man's scream. He fell backwards, dropping the MP7 and grabbing his bleeding foot. He howled in pain while Bond fought against the ziptie around his wrist.

"Why isn't he going to sleep?" he asked Natalia.

"I was out of tranquilizer darts. All I had left were the small-caliber shots."

"Dammit," said Bond, standing up in the chair. He stumbled forward and stomped on the man's bleeding foot to further incapacitate him.

He screamed in pain and rolled on the hard concrete ground. Bond's face was a mask of pain and rage as he pulled with all his might against the ziptie. He felt their bite, felt them breaking the skin and drawing blood around his wrists. With a loud yell, he gave a hard jerk with his arms and felt the plastic snap in two. His wrist bleeding and bruised, he stepped forward and picked up the MP7. Bond shoved the stock of the gun down, knocking the wounded man unconscious in a single blow. He searched the man and came up with his butterfly knife. He popped it open and slit Natalia's restraints in two.

"Thank you," she said standing up with her arms free.

Outside, there came a loud whine of an engine. They looked at each other and rushed across the concrete towards the hangar entrance. They came out into the just as the transport plane lifted off the runway. Its landing gear retracted up into its belly and it soared off, climbing higher and higher off into the night. The runway lights were off, the spare Hummer parked near the bushes. Not a soul was in sight besides Bond and Natalia.

"She got away," Natalia spat.

"No," said Bond. "She didn't. I tagged her."

"Your kiss," she said with a look of bemusement. "I wondered why you were acting like a schoolboy in heat."

"Don't tell me you're jealous," he said with a chuckle.

Natalia rolled her eyes. Laughing, Bond walked back to the unconscious man. He searched the man, coming up with his mobile, various items, and the drive they had stolen from the casino. Curious, thought Bond. Why leave it behind like this? Perhaps the drive no longer mattered, they had printed up as much money as they would ever need. Bond pulled his phone from the man's pocket and looked down at it. He had a missed call. He redialed the number and prepared what he was going to say.

_"007," _M said minutes later with relief in his voice. _"Where the hell have you been?"_

"In enemy hands. Seems that Manchester Apple was a bit premature. We recovered the drive, but the people behind it managed to print out billions worth of near perfect counterfeit Euros."

_"Near perfect?"_

"Might as well be perfect in this case. But I have a trace on the mastermind behind it."

_"And where exactly is this mastermind, 007?"_ asked M impatiently.

Bond pulled the phone away from his ear and activated the tracking app on his mobile. A global map appeared on the screen and then zoomed in to Eastern Europe. In the ten minutes since takeoff, the jet had covered plenty of ground. It was southwest of Minsk, heading towards the Polish border.

"West," said Bond into the mobile. "They're heading towards the West."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**"Dead End"**

**Zürich, Switzerland**

**1500 Local Time**

The navy blue Mercedes-Benz C-Class sped along _Bederstrasse_, the four-lane street that led northeast through the city. To their right, the cold waters Lake Zürich stretched out across the expanse below the snowy-peaked alps. The Mercedes kept pace with the midday traffic. The car blended in among the commuters going about the everyday business of their lives. Inside the car, though, were two people with an agenda that had very little to do with the cares and concerns of the people in the cars around them.

Sitting in the car's passenger seat, James Bond looked down at the mobile phone in his lap. He wore a blue suit with a white dress shirt, no tie and with an open collar. The aviator sunglasses on his face masked some of the giant bruise that took up nearly the entire left side of his face. His wrists were wrapped in bandages and medical tape. Behind the driver's seat, Natalia Romanova stared ahead wordlessly. She had opted to drive once they were in Switzerland. As an American, she was more familiar and comfortable with driving on the right side of the road like the Swiss and the rest of continental Europe did.

This marked their eighth hour in Switzerland. After giving M a debriefing on their actions in Belarus, Bond and Natalia had taken the black Hummer left in the hangar and drove back to their hotel. They spent the rest of the night typing field reports to their respective intelligence agencies, recapping what Bond had previously relayed to M. The sun was peeking over the horizon when they had finished. Both exhausted and weary, Bond had called room service and ordered a bottle of Dewar's. The Dewar's had roughness to it that Bond enjoyed. He had had better whiskeys, but it served its purpose admirably. He and Natalia killed half the bottle and then turned in, Natalia occupying the bed while Bond sought refuge on the suite's sofa.

It was early evening when Bond woke. Natalia was already awake, sitting at the room's table and eating a breakfast of baked ham and boiled potatoes. Splayed out in front of her on the table was the daily paper of Minsk. She read Bond the headline story.

The Minsk police, acting on an anonymous tip, had raided the Belaya Vezha Casino. There, the police had discovered an elaborate counterfeiting scheme wherein high-quality phony rubles and euros were being printed. The leader of the raid, Commander Nikita Thul, had praised the hard work of his men, saying that the tip was the result of a prolonged investigation into the casino. Jan Lukashenka, the casino owner had been found dead in his office, no suspects at the time. Coincidentally, a man had been injured in a lift accident at the hotel across the street from the casino. He was in critical, but stable condition at the time. He was found with no ID and with no given name, and so he was named John Doe. Police were searching for the man's identity and were asking for anyone with information to step forward.

Waiting for Bond was an email from M. MI6 had used the nanotech embedded on the Baroness' tongue to track her across Europe to Switzerland, some location in the alps forty-five minutes south of Zürich. The working theory at Six was that the criminals had chosen the site in question because of its relative closeness to the banking hub. The anonymity of Swiss banking and their disdain for the European Union would make it an ideal place to launder the phony money. Even though they had recovered the stolen drive and did their favor to Interpol, M wanted to play the string out to see where it led. Because of that, Bond to be dispatched to Zürich to investigate the Baroness' movements in the area and to find out what her endgame was with the counterfeit cash. Bond was booked on a midnight flight from Minsk to Zürich with a brief layover in Berlin.

An hour after receiving his orders, a man from SHIELD's Russian station had met Bond and Natalia in the park outside their hotel. After she had went through the signs and countersigns to confirm the agent's identity, she had handed the drive containing the currency information over to him. He had given them a pair of airline tickets to Switzerland along with two large metal cases. He had informed Natalia that, with the recovery of the drive, SHIELD's stake in the mission was at an end. She had been kept on to aid and backup Bond as a favor to M from Director Fury.

They had arrived here in Zürich just after seven, still posing in their married couple identity. Bond had rented the Mercedes at the airport and tossed the keys to Natalia, informing her to drive. Going off Six's hunch about the Baroness coming into the city, they had driven south on the A3 motorway until they were five miles outside the city. Natalia had parked the car at a rest stop while Bond watched the tracker on his phone, looking for any movements in the mountains.

They killed time by talking, playing cards, and taking turns sleeping. Finally, five hours into their stakeout, the GPS marker began to move. It headed down from the mountains and south on the A3. A half hour later, Bond and Natalia watched as six trucks, Mercedes Actros, blew past with a silver S-Class bringing up the rear. Bond saw the large figure of the Russian wedged in the driver's seat of the S-Class.

They waited five minutes before following. When Natalia finally pulled on the highway, the group of trucks had veered right off A3, headed into the city on _Allmendsrasse. _She drove them at a leisurely pace, with the tracker there was no need to keep the trucks in constant view. They would occasionally catch glimpses of the tops of the canvas-covered beds before they disappeared around the bend.

"They stopped," said Bond after twenty minutes of following.

He looked up from his mobile and checked where they were. Still on _Bederstrasse, _now on Bleicherweg as the streets merged together. The GPS node had com to a stop six blocks away off _Paradeplatz._ Bond searched the internet for information on the address. What he found out did not come to much of a surprise.

"They're at a bank," he said without looking up. "UBS."

UBS, originally the Union of Bank of Switzerland, is a global bank that operates in fifty countries worldwide. Despite the fact it was hit hard by the mortgage crisis in 2008, UBS' total assets total 1.4 trillion Swiss francs. It is considered by many to be the top private financial institute in the world.

"I think the Franc is even stronger than the Euro," said Natalia.

The car passed by the stopped location of the convoy and saw that it was in fact a branch of UBS. Workers were busy unloading crates from the back of the trucks and wheeling them into the bank. Natalia drove by without stopping or slowing. She turned right and drove them south towards the lake. She found a parking lot facing the lake and pulled them in there.

"Money laundering," Bond said to her once the car's ignition was off. "It seems almost too simple, too anticlimactic for an operation of the size and scale they're operating on."

"Never overestimate the imaginations of criminals, James. It almost always boils down to cash. It is expensive, but well worth it. They printed the money in Belarus and flew it to Switzerland. They're making billions off the difference in the exchange rate alone."

"You're right," he said without comment on the fact Natalia had used his first name instead of Bond. It was something he had first noticed the morning after their run in with the Baroness and the Russian. "But I keep playing back something the Baroness said the other night. She said by the time Six or SHIELD had figured out where we were, it would be too late. That implies a larger game is at play. Something more than just making money."

"Well," she said, reaching out with her right hand to pat the top of Bond's left hand. "That's why we're here. To figure out."

He smiled at her and nodded. He didn't let his thoughts linger on the contact of her hand against his, or the spark that accompanied it. Bond picked the phone off his lap and looked at the GPS display on the screen.

"The Baroness is one the move again..."

Forty minutes later, Natalia drove the Mercedes up the elevated road, leaving the city behind for the alps. The Baroness and her trucks were a half mile up the road, climbing higher into the mountains. They came over a hill and saw farther up the mountain. At a fork in the road, the Baroness' car went right while the trucks stayed left

"I'm following the trucks," Natalia said as she veered right at the junction. Bond silently agreed. They could always backtrack the Baroness and discover her location.

With the last truck in sight, Bond and Natalia followed down the winding and snow-littered mountain roads. They came to a dip in the road, leading down the side of the mountain. A mile down the hill, the trucks began to turn off a side road. Natalia followed slowly, letting the trucks disappear down a bend in the back road. She went carefully over the gravel to avoid any detection. Somewhere in the distance, gunshots rang out. Bond and Natalia traded looks. He pulled his Walther from it shoulder holster while she pulled her Glock from the lower back holster one-handed.

They turned a corner and came to a section of the road blocked by the back of one of the trucks. The truck was still running, its engine idling in the cold. The driver's side door was open, a dead and bullet ridden body on the ground. Bond got out while Natalia parked the car. He crouched and quietly walked along the opposite side of the truck. There was another short burst of automatic gunfire. It sounded close by to Bond. Carefully, he peeked around the front of the truck and came face to face with the barrel of a MAC-10 machine pistol.

The skinny bald man holding the gun loomed above him, a smirk on his face.

"Dead end," he said with a short bark of a laugh. "Looks like you hit a dead end."


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Litmus Test**

**Switzerland**

**1623 Local Time**

The rat-faced man with the MAC 10 had Bond dead to rights, the barrel of his gun inches from Bond's right eye. Bond looked up at the man and stared. He knew that the distance between them was too close to roll away or dodge the shots, and it was too far away for Bond to attack with close quarters. So, that was it. He would die here on a mountain in Switzerland. He wasn't rattled by the thought. As a 00 agent for the better part of a year, death had been his constant companion. He had nearly died at least six times in the past fourteen months. So it would be the one in seven tries that did him in. Law of averages, he supposed.

"Well," said Bond with a questioning look at the man. "Kill me, you bastard. Be quick about it."

The coolness at which Bond was accepting death made the man unsure, the words he spoke were not what he expected. He wanted Bond to beg for his life, plead for him not to squeeze the trigger like the truck drivers had done. There seemed no fun in just killing him. Just joyless work. If he did that, what made him any different from a man who worked a punch hole for six hours in a factory? Noting at all, really. No panache, no excitement. Just garbage in, garbage out. It was then that the man had a horrible thought. He had become the thing he hated the most. He had become his father, working a thankless and soul-crushing job. Maybe that's why he had gone to this life of crime in the first place, rebelling against his father and his mother. Oh, don't get him started on his mother and all the damage she had done to him over the years... What in the hell had this Englishman sitting crouched in the snow done to him?

The man's discovery had come at the most inopportune moment. He was so busy contemplating life and his place in the world, that he hadn't heard the soft crunch of snow behind him. Nor had he felt Natalia's small and strong hands on his head before it was too late. There was a snap as she twisted his head sideways, breaking his neck in one quick movement. He crumpled to the ground, his dying body jerking in the last stages of cerebral shutdown.

"Thanks," said Bond as he stood upright. "Lucky he froze like he did. Had be dead to rights. Wonder what the devil got into him?"

"Who knows," she said, picking the MAC-10 off the ground and ejecting the clip. "Different things go through people's heads when they must pull a trigger."

"Agreed," he said.

Freezing up was never a problem he had encountered so far. Even faced with having to kill a woman he thought he loved, Bond had pulled the trigger with almost no hesitation. It may have made him a better agent, but did it make him a better human being? That was a question that wasn't his to answer.

"Listen," Natalia hissed as she squatted.

Bond broke from his philosophical thoughts and bent down, listening hard for any unusual ambient noises. There was the sounds of footsteps in the snow, two different sets of feet from the sound of it. They had started distant, but were now growing louder. Bond made eye contact with Natalia and motioned under the truck behind them. She nodded and slipped underneath the truck bed. Bond followed, sliding through the mixed gravel and snow as they clawed towards the other side of the vehicle.

Natalia slid out from under the truck and stood up while Bond stopped when his head was flush with the right side tires. He rolled over on to his back and looked back at the other side of the car. With his gun out, he watched and waited for the men's feet to come into view. Two pairs of boots appeared around the front of the truck and approached the dead killer. Bond heard two voices speaking rapidly in Belarusian, one of them bending to examine the dead body. With his Walther held tightly, Bond drew a bead on the crouched man's left ankle. He took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. Blood flew from the man's ankle. A scream accompanied the gunshot as he collapsed to the ground, clutching his wounded ankle. Bond aimed for the other man, who was running towards the where he had come from in an attempt to flee from the unseen gunman. He got another shot off, missing his ankle but taking a chuck out the back of the man's right calve.

Underneath the truck, Bond saw Natalia's feet crunching through the snow on the opposite side, running towards the front of the truck. She was on a collision course with the now limping man.

"Look out," he yelled to her.

Too far away, his plea fell on deaf ears. Natalia came around the truck and crashed into the running man. Their two bodies fell into the snow. With horror, Bond saw Natalia's gun slip from her fingers. The wounded man had held on to his gun, and from his backside he aimed for Natalia's prone body. Before he could get a shot off, Bond fired three times. His first shot winged the shooter in the shoulder, the second pierced his neck, and the third shot drove the 7.65 millimeter bullet through the man's right temple. There was no exit wound with the head shot, just the bullet burying itself deep inside the man's skull as he fell backwards.

"Are you okay?" Bond called out to Natalia as he crawled towards the front.

"Yes," she grumbled.

He came out from under the truck and helped Natalia on her feet. She picked her pistol from the ground and brushed snow off it. While she checked that the barrel was free of any obstructions, Bond walked towards the man with the bullet in his ankle. He kept his gun out as he came around the truck, aiming it at the wounded man clutching his ankle.

"Want to end up like your friends? Refuse to talk and you will."

"What do you want," the man whimpered. His large eyes were brimming with tears. That was how chaps like him acted when the end came. Full of piss and vinegar when they were behind a gun, they could never fully comprehend what it would be like being the one on the end of a gun.

"What were you and the others doing at that bank today?"

"Off-loading cash," whined the man. "Billions of Euros deposited in the bank."

"What about the men you were killing?" asked Bond, stepping closer to the man while still keeping the gun trained on him. "The drivers. Why were they being murdered?"

"The Baroness' plan. Leave as few loose ends as possible."

"How did you and your friends plan to get back?"

"There's a man in a car waiting for us on the highway. We would take that back to their location."

"Where is that," barked Bond. "Where is the Baroness and her Russian friend?"

With the GPS nanites, it wasn't a question Bond needed the answer to. Still, it would be a litmus test to see if the man was telling the truth or feeding Bond lies.

"Th-... They have a site near the top of the mountain," he stuttered. "A large warehouse with a helipad, runway, the works. That's where they've stockpiled the cash since it began rolling in earlier this week."

"Thank you," said Bond. flipped his Walther and turned it butt first. He struck down, hitting the man in the temple with the gun's handle. He fell in the snow, groggy and rapidly losing consciousness.

While he had interrogated the wounded man, Natalia had scouted the area and found no more armed men. Instead, she had found plenty of bodies. The remains of the workers that had unloaded the counterfeit euros to the bank were lying face first in the snow, a single bullet in the back of each head. They turned away from the horrible site of the dead bodies and trudged through the snow towards the highway.

"I should have killed that man," Bond said softly as they walked. "What they did to those people, it would have been more than fair."

"You're right," Natalia said. "And he will probably die. Either the cold or the blood loss will get him. Focus on the people he works for. They are the ones really worthy of a bullet."

"I was instructed to try to bring the Baroness in alive when the time comes," said Bond. "The resources and men being used, she must be working for someone. Six wants to know who."

"What about the Russian?" she asked with raised eyebrows.

"They didn't mention sparing him."

"Good," she said coldly. "While you slept yesterday, I read up on him. The things he has done, both for the KGB and the crime lords of Moscow. The way he's killed, tortured and raped... He has to be put down. James, when the time comes, will you let me do it?"

"With pleasure," replied Bond.

"Thank you," she said. "Also, I didn't thank you for saving my life earlier."

"Because I still owe you one," he said nonchalantly. "You saved mine back there and at the airstrip in Belarus. Don't thank me until we're even."

Natalia closed the gap between them and reached out, taking his right hand in her left. Without a word between them, they walked through the snow in silence holding hands. It was almost serene, two attractive people walking through the beautiful Swiss alps hand in hand. If not for the blood on Bond's shirt and the stench of cordite on them both, it would have been perfect.

Twenty minutes later, they came upon a burgundy Volkswagen Jetta parked by the side of the road. There was a man in the driver's seat, a flat cap down around his eyes as he dozed. Natalia rendered him unconscious with a sleeper hold around the neck. Once he was out, she rolled him out the car and left him on the side of the road as her and Bond sped down the highway in the stolen Jetta.

From the passenger seat, Bond checked the GPS tracker on his phone. It appeared the wounded man's information about the Baroness was correct. The dot that identified her was still at the top of the mountain. If the rest of the information he had supplied was true, Bond imagined he and Natalia wouldn't have an easy go of the next few hours.

Natalia doubled back on the highway and came to the Mercedes they had rented. She checked to make sure that the wounded man was still out. While she did that, Bond popped the trunk of the car and looked down inside. Two large cases had been given to them by the SHIELD agent in Belarus. Bond popped open the case and at the gunmetal grey assault rifle. An American M4 carbine with a grenade launcher attachment and night vision scope. For all his indifference towards the Americans, he loved their taste in hardware.

"He's still out," Natalia said as she came to back of the car.

"Good," replied Bond. He reached into the case and pulled the M4 out. He checked the rifle while Natalia opened the other case. Inside were two new gauntlets for her, a pair of nine millimeter Glock 26s, and a black bodysuit with a utility belt. The belt's buckle had stamped on it, the red hourglass symbol found on the back of a Black Widow.

"Fancy dress," said Bond playfully.

"Custom made stealth suit designed by SHIELD," she said, looking it over. "Gives me certain advantages in operations like this.

"Keep your suits and your trick bracelets." Bond drove the M4's clip home and chambered a round into the weapon. "I'll take a three-round burst of full metal jacket bullets any day."

With their new equipment and weapons, Bond and Natalia walked back towards the Jetta. Natalia started the car down the road and they began their trek up the mountain to where the Baroness, the Russian, and the end of the whole bloody affair waited.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Fire in the Hole**

**Switzerland**

**0314 Local Time**

The white Learjet 45 touched down on the long runway, the tires squealing and smoking from the friction of the tarmac against their surface. The runway ran across the length of the plateau at the base of the mountaintop summit. At one end was a large hangar that already had several aircraft harbored inside against the snow. The other end of the runway ended at the edge of the plateau, upon which there was thousand foot drop to the rocks below.

The runway and hangar were parts of a larger facility. In addition to them, there was a large metal building a half mile in length and a quarter-mile in width. Next to the building were two smaller and square concrete facilities that acted as barracks for the workers and guards. The final building in the group was a two-story office building, painted slate grey with dark tinted glass windows. Encircling the facility on three sides was a length of chain-link fence with barbed wires on the top. The only side left open was the cliff-face where the runway ended.

The Learjet slowed to a stop outside the hangar as two figures stood in the light snowfall, watching as the jet's engines were winding down. The door to the jet opened with a soft pop, stairs sliding from the entrance and resting on the ground. From the mouth of the door, a tall and heavyset man emerged. His grey hair was fixed in a slicked back pompadour, his tanned olive skin clashed against the whiteness of the environment, as did his outfit of a black suit, black shirt, and black tie all encased in an open black trenchcoat. He was a man who people had considered beautiful when he was younger, and age had turned his beauty into a rugged handsomeness and a distinguished air that was ten times more effective than simple beauty.

"Number 2," the Baroness said from the foot of the steps said with a short bow. "Welcome."

"Thank you," he said, his deep voice and Italian accent matching his looks. "And may I congratulate you on a most impressive set up, Number 3."

He reached out to his the Baroness, taking her thin, black gloved hand and kissing the top of it. He gave the woman a confident smirk and stared at her with twinkling hazel eyes. He looked away from the Baroness and scanned her companion. The Russian looked at Number 2 neutrally, his massive hands tucked inside his gigantic winter coat. The Russian would not acknowledge the man unless he spoke directly to him, for that was what the Baroness had ordered.

"So, my dear," said Number 2. "Do you plan to invite me inside, or shall my poor Italian blood freeze away on this godforsaken mountain."

"Follow me, sir," said the Baroness with an extended hand.

She led the two men across the facility to the office building. The building's first floor was one long room. Plasma monitors were mounted over all four walls, displaying the current standings of the stock exchanges of various western European countries, Asian markets, and the New York Stock Exchange. Above the walls, a mezzanine wrapped around the wall and looked down on the rest of the room. A long, rectangular conference table rested in opening's center, laptops and papers covered nearly every inch of the table. A small collection of men and women gathered around the table and were busy working, some typing away furiously on the laptops while others scribbled notes with pen and paper.

"So far so good," said Number 2, pleased that she had followed orders exactly. "How long until we're go?"

"Under five hours," said the Baroness. "Our people are in place in Frankfurt, Tokyo, New York, London, and Shanghai. Japan and China are already trading, and they'll still be trading by the time we're ready."

"Excellent," he replied. "And you prepared my personal suite?"

"Of course," she said with a soft smile. "It's set up to service your ever need."

"Show me," he said.

The Baroness waved off the Russian and led Number 2 to a metal staircase the led to the second floor landing. The corridor she led him down was a shade of cream-white, and had a dozen black doors on either side that were all closed off. Staff quarters, she had informed him, for the workers down below. At the end of the hallway were double doors that had a sign on it that announced what was inside was off-limits to everyone and everybody at the compound. The Baroness pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the doors. She pushed them open and led Number 2 inside.

They were greeted by a room that was on par with the most opulent hotel suites money could by. Thick, plush red carpet covered every inch of the floor. The walls, a rich amber color, had soft light fixtures that bathed the room in a golden light. A sixty inch LCD monitor was mounted on one wall, across from it was a queen-sized bed with black sheets, a black comforter, and black pillowcases. The bed rested on a Brazilian rosewood frame. Resting beside the bed was an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it, a 1995 Blanc des Millénaires. A large window on the far wall looked out at the snowy peaks of the alps. The room had not been cheap, but Number 2 had always put comfort ahead of price. And, besides, money was soon going to be a problem he would never worry about again.

"Is it all you asked for?" asked the Baroness hopefully.

"And more so," he said. "Would you be a dear and give me five minutes alone?"

"Of course," she said, turning and leaving out the double doors.

With the Baroness gone, Number 2 walked to the LCD screen and placed his mobile up to it. The device synched with his phone and he began to navigate through the menu over the monitor's touch screen. He placed a video call and stepped back towards the bed to wait for the call's recipient to answer.

_"Number 2,"_ said the heavily distorted voice of Number 1, head of SPECTRE. His profile and features were basked in shadow. Even in the perfect display of the monitor, Number 2 could not make out anything about his boss. _"How is Switzerland?"_

"Cold," Number 2 said woefully. "Beautiful, but cold as hell."

_"Well, it's only temporarily. What's the status of Midas?"_

"All appears as if it is under control. I've only had a cursory glance, but I expect to carry out a more... thorough examination shortly."

_"See that you do,"_ said the hidden man in a curt tone. In the three years he had known the man, the one thing Number 2 knew for certain was that Number 1 wanted facts and data, not hunches and guesses. _"I received an email from Midas' employer earlier today. Their board of directors gave final approval for Midas to be carried out. You have a tentative green light. If the operations are up to your standards, begin the final phase of Midas at 0800."_

"Yes, sir," said Number 2.

Like that, the man was gone from the screen. Number 2 turned the monitor off and pocketed his mobile. He ignored the growing pit of nervousness in his stomach. The one thing had hadn't mentioned to Number 1 was the one loose end out there: James Bond and his SHIELD helper. Kraven hadn't reported back yet that he had carried out the British special agent's murder, and the Baroness had given her word that the man and woman had been murdered back in Belarus. But like Kraven, her man in Minsk had yet to report back.

Number 2 shook his head and loosened his black necktie. He shouldn't worry about the man, at this juncture there was nothing he nor anyone else could do to stop Midas. The money they needed for Midas was all cleaned and waiting in the Swiss bank accounts, SPECTRE's moles wouldn't be found out until it was far too late, and all it would take to start Midas was a single keystroke. Yes, even if Bond was alive, he was powerless to stop them.

"You may come back in," he said to the door. On cue, the Baroness came back in. She stood at the threshold, her hands on her hips waiting for orders. "Be a dear and fix some champagne," he said to her. "One for yourself as well. It's a celebration."

She nodded and smiled, walking towards the ice bucket. Number 2 slid his tie off and walked towards the bathroom. Inside, he removed his coat, sports jacket, and tie. He placed them on an empty towel rack to keep the clothes from gathering lint. With the top button his black dress shirt open, he walked back into the room. Waiting for him was the Baroness. She sat under the black covers of the bed, two filled champagne glasses in her hands. Her clothes rest in a pile at the foot of the bed.

"You said it was a celebration, no?" she asked with a grin.

"You are right," he said, sitting down on the bed beside her. She handed him a glass and they clinked them together. Number 2 swallowed the glasses contents in three quick gulps. When he had finished, he placed the glass down by the bed and took the Baroness' half-empty glass from her hands and placed it beside his own glass. His rugged left hand reached out for her, tilting her chin backwards in front of him. "Let the celebrating begin," he said softly.

Outside the compound, two hundred feet below the cliff where the runway ended, two figures slowly climbed upwards. They both wore thick winter clothing, included gloves, hats, and goggles. Large packs were strapped to their backs. The clothing and packs were white to blend in with the snowy terrain. They both had twin pitons in their hands, using them and their spiked boots to scale the mountain foot by foot. The pitons were attached to their waists via rope, the ropes joining the two climbers together. The climber in the lead was smaller than the one that followed, a shock of red hair poked out from the lead climber's cap.

They were two hours into their ascent. The howling wind was their only constant companion throughout. One notable event had occurred an hour previously, when a jet had flown overhead to land on the plateau above them. They had both frozen in place, clinging furiously to the cliff face to hide themselves with their surroundings. After satisfied they had not been spotted, they continued their trek upwards.

An hour later, the first climber came up over the cliff. They climbed up on to the plateau and helped the second climber up. On solid ground for the first time in three hours, the two climbers walked stiffly from the edge of the cliff towards a snow bank. There, they crouched and began to remove their climbing gear. Ripping the hat and goggles off, James Bond rubbed his bruised face. Behind him, Natalia Romanova slid her goggles on to her head.

Bond slid the pack from his back and pulled out the bag's contents. The black M4 assault rifle glinted off the moonlight as Bond turned off the safety. Natalia unzipped her winter suit and stepped out from it, revealing a skin-tight black bodysuit with a pair of thigh holsters containing her pistols.

"Quick way to catch a cold," said Bond nonchalantly as he observed her outfit. "Running around in that all night."

"Sneaking around in those heavy clothes is an even quicker way to catch a bullet."

"I suppose," said Bond, activating the M4's night vision scope. The gun came equipped with a grenade launcher and three additional projectile grenades.

With their climbing gear abandoned, they quietly and carefully began their journey across the snow and runway towards the main hub of the compound. Through his night vision scope, Bond could see out across the plateau. The scope gave the white snow an otherworldly green glow. In the filter, Bond saw guards patrolling the compound's chain-link front entrance, men spread through the area at key points, and sentries at the top of a two-story building near the site's center.

The sound of approaching footfalls stopped the two secret agents in their tracks. Bond spun to his right and saw a man, automatic weapon slung over his shoulder, walking parallel to the runway. The man breathed into his hands and rubbed them together as he walked.

"Contact," he whispered to Natalia. "Three o'clock, fifty yards away."

Bond went down to one knee, lining the man's chest up into the scope's crosshairs. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Natalia pass by him and disappear into the shadows. Going back to the target before him, the man was now thirty yards from Bond. Out of nowhere, a black figure pounced on the man's back. It was all legs and arms as the unknown wraith spun the man to the ground and drove his head into the snow. With the guard unconscious, Natalia looked up at smiled towards Bond's direction.

"Show off," he whispered softly to himself.

After sneaking through the snow for twenty minutes, they came to a large metal building with two board watchmen standing on both sides of a large bay door. Two tranquilizer bolts from Natalia's wrists dropped them to the ground in a matter of seconds. With the sentries sleeping, she and Bond opened the metal door beside the bay and ventured inside.

"Oh, my god," Natalia said suddenly.

The building in which they had entered was stacked with pallets as far as the eye could see. Loaded on each pallet were stacks of Euros. Bond looked further down the building, the pallets stretched all the way to the end of the building and went from left to right on both sides. An entire warehouse filled to the brim with perfectly counterfeit money.

"Take a good look," he said to Natalia. "This is what one trillion dollars looks like."

"So much money... for what purpose?"

"That's what we're here for," said Bond. Suddenly, an idea came to him. "I wonder if there is a nearby utility shed..."

They found what they were looking for a hundred yards due west of the warehouse. A locked shed that, thankfully, they had a key to thanks to one of the unconscious guards. With Bond standing guard, Natalia had looked through the shed until she found was she was looking for.

"Here we are," she said, stepping out of the shed with two large, plastic gas cans. "There are eight more inside."

They worked quickly, spreading the gas throughout the warehouse, between rows and dabbling enough gas on the false money to start it going. When they were satisfied, Bond had used the last gas can to douse the first row of euros in gasoline, then pouring a large pool of gas at the entrance to the warehouse door. With the can empty, Bond retreated back into the snow and crouched behind an embankment fifty yards away from the warehouse. He slung the M4 from his shoulders and activated the grenade launcher attachment.

"Incoming," he said, shooting the grenade towards the pool of gas gathered at the warehouse door.

The vibration of the explosion is what woke Number 2 from his slumber. He looked to his right out the window. The night sky was now glowing orange from some unseen light source. Curious, Number 2 pushed away the sleeping and naked Baroness away from him and climbed from the bed. Naked, he crossed the carpeted floor and looked out the window at what lay below.

The warehouse was ablaze, fire dancing from every corner of the building. Black smoke poured from the skylights. Men hurried around the building, trying to figure out what to do. To Number 2, they looked like chickens with their head's cut off. While the fire burned the warehouse and the fortune within, there was a fire growing inside Number 2. It was a fire of hatred and the desire to see the arsonist killed in as many painful ways as possible. Even though he would not admit it, the fire was also one of fear and uncertainty. The source of his hatred and fear all belonged to the same individual.

"Bond," he said through clenched teeth.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Midas Revealed**

**Switzerland**

**0515 Local Time**

From their vantage point above the compound, the two guards watched the chaos ensuing below. Nearly every guard hired by the private security company was busy in the snow. Some kept watch on the burning warehouse where the blazing fire roared, but most stood in formation while the Italian man who had only just arrived barked orders at them. Behind the Italian, the giant Russian stood still. Neither man liked or cared for the large man. He was cruel, and a few of their comrades went missing soon after running afoul of the man.

"Fan out," the Italian loud enough for the guards to hear. "There are two intruders, a man and a woman. Search the area in groups of three. Shoot to kill upon sight. Go!"

As the guards scattered in packs, the two men looked out for any signs of the man and woman. The sentries were on the roof of the two-story building that acted as the compound's headquarters. They wore thick coats and trousers with stocking caps. Strapped to their backs were PP-19 Bizon submachine guns.

As they looked out over the plateau compound for any movement, there was plenty of movement behind them. A metallic grapnel anchored to the lip of the rooftop shifted with movement as something tugged at the other end of the line. Two black gloved hands appeared on the edge of the roof. With a blur of movement, the black clad figure jumped on to the rooftop and sped towards the unaware sentries.

Leaping into the air, Natalia Romanova landed on the back of one of the men. She wrapped her legs around the man's waist and shifted her momentum, spinning him to the ground and landing on top of the man. The guard wheezed as the breath rushed out of him. Before his companion could react, Natalia detached herself from the prone man and swept her legs sharply to the right, knocking the other guard's legs out from under him.

With both men prone, she grabbed their heads with both hands and smashed them into the roof. They gave a collective groan before consciousness escaped them. With the guards out, Natalia took their weapons and dropped them off the roof. They landed in a snow bank piled against the building, sinking into the white powder.

"Black Widow to 007," she said into the mic in her tooth. "I'm ready."

_"Roger that,"_ came the crisp voice of Bond. _"Prepare for a distraction."_

After disconnecting from Natalia, Bond slid the M4 on to his back and began to slowly creep through the large hangar adjacent to the compound's runway. Stored here with him was a seemingly random collection of vehicles. Six snowmobiles, four Volkswagen sedans, the MD-11 cargo jet Bond had seen in Belarus, a Learjet, and an all-black helicopter that looked like a Blackhawk. The fuselage of the craft was covered in some sort of strange metal, a metallic black that glimmered against the dim lights suspended in the hangar.

Bond had heard rumblings and rumors for years about stealth helicopters used by the Americans for black operations. Three times as quiet as the quietest known helicopter and invisible to all forms of electronic detection, the crafts were a closely guarded secret of the American special forces. How in the hell had one ended up in Switzerland of all places, wondered Bond.

Passing by the Volkswagen, Bond came to the snowmobiles. He slid on to one of the vehicles and pulled a combat knife from a holster on his hip. With the blade edge, he wedged open the starter. Bond yanked the ignition wires from the starter and entwined them together, creating a hotwire for the snowmobile. Reaching into his pocket, Bond produced a roll of duct tape he had nicked from a toolbox in the hangar. He pulled off a large section of tape and wrapped it around the throttle of the snowmobile. With the throttle in place, Bond twisted the ignition wires together and held on as the snow craft roared out of the hangar.

"There!" yelled one of the guards.

Number 2 looked towards where the man had pointed. Speeding out of the hangar, a figure on a snowmobile tore across the runway and into the snow towards the treeline that led down the mountain.

"Go!" shouted the Italian. "Go get him, dammit!"

The guards began to run after the speeding snowmobile as it disappeared into the trees near the end of the runway. Angered, Number 2 began to trek with them across the snow. As he huffed and puffed across the compound, the Russian held back. He narrowed his eyes as he saw all the men heading towards the fleeing snowmobile. Then he turned back, looking up at the headquarters.

The sentries that had watched from the top of the building were now gone. With a scowl, he turned away from the guards and Number 2. Let the fools have their chase, thought the Russian. He wouldn't be too surprised if they found more than they wanted. With his hands out from the giant coat pockets, he climbed the stairs and headed inside the compound headquarters.

Inside the headquarter's control room, the Baroness paced back and forth in front of the large monitor mounted on the wall. All the financial analysts were busy with their work and running the last-minute calculations for Midas. They worked steadily, with some sharing nervous glances at each other between writing and typing.

The Baroness fumed, the developments of the last few minutes soured her once pleasant mood. Number 2 had woken her from her post-coitus slumber with a hard shake and the even harder truth that all the money they had printed day and night to stock pile was gone, set ablaze by Bond and Romanova, or so Number 2 assumed. The money was to be a bonus, SPECTRE had more than enough money for Midas and their payment from their employers, but that money was to go to her and Number 2, compensation for a job completed.

Over her shoulder, there was several soft pops of air followed by a few loud crashes. Turning, she saw all the workers slumped in their seats, a few on the floor. Coming down from the staircase, Natalia Romanova trained her Glock 26s on her.

"Don't move," the Russian agent said sternly.

The Baroness slowly raised her hands, her face remaining stoic as the SHIELD agent crossed the room towards her.

"On your knees," she ordered. "Hands behind your head."

The Baroness complied, slowly falling to her knees and placing the palms of her hands on the back of her neck.

"If this is your idea of foreplay, darling," chuckled the Baroness. "Perhaps you should work on it."

"What is going on here?" asked Romanova. "What were you planning on doing with the cash?"

The Baroness had no intention to speak, but that changed when she saw the door behind Romanova slowly open, the door gliding soundless on its greased hinges. The humongous frame of the Russian came through, his large feet quietly moving him towards Romanova.

"Total financial collapse," the Baroness said with a grin. "Agents in the media for weeks have been talking about the declining value of the Euro. Seventy-five billion unbacked Euros pulled from the Swiss back account and dumped on to the Frankfurt stock exchange spot trading market as soon as trading starts. When we do that, the Euro will go into a tailspin. Traders and banks all across the globe own German surety bonds, most of those traders are in our pocket. With the Euro going down, they will advise their companies and governments to sell the bonds as quickly as possible."

The Russian was getting closer, slowly but sure. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that he was twenty yards away from Romanova. The agent kept staring at the Baroness, entranced by her story. The Baroness made sure to keep looking forward at her as she continued to explain the plan.

"By lunchtime, the German economy will be destabilized. As the most fiscally sound nation in the EU, it'll be the first domino that will send the Euro down the toilet and collapse all the economies of the nations in the Eurozone."

"To what end do you do this? Romanova asked with a scowl.

"Besides fun? We're being paid by a global corporation to do it. Prepared for this event, they'll be unaffected by the economic chaos and will bail out the EU with the money they need. They're going to buy countries wholesale. You see, Miss Romanova, that's the future. No more flags of national pride, just commodities. Great Britain brought to you by Barclays, America's amber waves of grain sponsored by Exxon Mobil."

"What is the account number to the bank account," Romanova hissed, pressing the barrel of the gun into the Baroness' face. "What is the password to use the funds?"

"I know the account," said the Baroness with a playful smirk. "But only Number 2 knows the password."

"Number 2?"

"Of SPECTRE." She gave out a shrill laugh. "Always good to know the name of one's killer. I suppose that should account for something."

Romanova prepared to say something, but the massive arm of the Russian grabbed her by the neck, cutting off her retort. The Russian grunted and tossed her halfway across the room with a powerful throw. She slammed into the solid wood conference table, bouncing off it and rolling to the ground, her guns clattering away on opposite sides of the room.

"Take care of her," the Baroness instructed, standing. "And take your time."

The Russian nodded and began to walk towards the dazed Romanova while the Baroness hurried across the room and out the door.

The guards treaded through the woods towards the whine of the snowmobile. A few men had taken potshots at the vehicle and it had crashed into a tree. The engine continued to rev in the snow as the dozen men approached it. Like their brethren on the roof, they each wielded Bizons in their hands.

"Careful," one of the men said softly as they came over a snowbank. Down below them was the wreckage of the snowmobile. They went down the hill towards the craft. One of the men ventured forward carefully, bending down to look at the wreck.

"Did you find him," Number 2's voice echoed from outside the woods.

"No," the man by the snowmobile yelled back. He looked at the throttle and the material attached to it. He pulled it away, examining it as the vehicle choked down. "Tape," he said as he rose to show it to his fellow guards.

"Well," Number 2 yelled impatiently. "Where is he?"

"Here," a voice said softly from behind them.

Rising from the snowbank above, Bond leveled his M4 down at the men and opened fire with the grenade launcher. The gas-powered grenade tumbled through the air and landed in the middle of the group of guards. Bond ducked back down into the snowbank as the grenade exploded. When Bond rose from his shelter, there were only a few guards left alive. Those that were still alive were either maimed or severely wounded by the blast. They would be dead, Bond figured. He hadn't wanted to kill the men, but he knew that if their places were reversed not a single one would have hesitated if it meant life of death.

Walking out of the snow, he came out of the woods and looked around the area for the man the guards had talked to. The Italian man with the booming voice. Where was he, wondered Bond. He soon found his answer, as a black figure lunged from the trees, a long and jagged butterfly knife in his hands. The blade came down on Bond's left hand, cutting him deep and causing him to drop the gun.

"Hello, Mister Bond," he said with a grin, holding the blade out like an expert fencer. "I look forward to killing you."


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**"Up in Smoke"**

**Switzerland**  
**0555 Local Time**

The dark glass of the window shattered, a body tumbling through it and landing hard in the snow. Groaning, Natalia Romanova laid on her back and looked up at the dark sky above her. Every muscle in her body ached, pain shooting from every nerve. Her breath was short and labored.

Overhead, the stars in the sky were blotted out by the enormous shadow of the Russian. He loomed over her, smiling ruthlessly. His massive hands began to reach out to her prone body. Grunting, Natalia rolled away from his grip and stood.

"Not today," she spat.

Moving fast, she attacked the Russian with powerful kicks to the man's sides and hips. Natalia recoiled backwards in pain as the Russian gave a deep and throaty laugh. It was like kicking a brick wall, she thought. There was no give to the man's body, just hardness.

"Yes," he said, grabbing her by the shoulders and lifting her over his head. "Today!"

With a deep heave, he tossed her. She smacked against the runway hard and slid across the black tarmac surface. Behind the Russian, the Baroness calmly watched the beating with mild interest, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket.

"Where is Number 2?" she asked.

"Over there." He pointed towards the woods. Near the treeline, she could see two figures moving rapidly. "Forget about the redhead bitch. Go find Number 2 and bring him to the plane. He's the only one with the password to access the money."

"Very well," said the Russin sullenly.

As her pet thug headed towards the woods, the Baroness walked towards the barely conscious Romanova. The Baroness looked down at the bruised and bleeding SHIELD agent.

"Stay where you are, my dear," she cooed, kicking Natalia in the chest to make sure she stayed down. "We'll end your suffering soon enough."  
Turning away from the runway, the Baroness walked towards the hangar where a pilot was already warming up the engines of the Learjet.

Number 2 stabbed quickly with the blade of his butterfly knife, missing Bond's shoulder by centimeters. Bond attacked, punching the man in the chest. Number 2 coughed, but managed to bring the blade around. The tip of the knife slashed into Bond's left cheek just below the eye, creating a three-inch vertical cut. Wincing, Bond grabbed Number 2's right wrist.

The two men struggled with each other for the blade. Barring his teeth, Bond lunged forward and head butted Number 2 in the forehead. The blow knocked both men backwards a bit, both attempting to gain footing on the slick ground. Bond recovered first, looking at the slightly dazed Italian man.

Seeing a window of opportunity, Bond grabbed for the man's right wrist again and bent it back. The bone made a loud pop, accompanied by Number 2's harsh scream. The knife fell from his grip into the snow. With the man focusing on the pain, Bond let into him with three quick blows, a left, right, left combination to his body. The blows dropped Number 2 into the snow. Catching his breath, Bond stood over the hurt man and prepared to attack again, but a powerful blow to his back knocked Bond off his feet.

"Go," the Russian said to Number 2, helping him up on his feet. "Plane is waiting. I will clean up this mess."

Nodding, Number 2 picked his knife from the snow and walked towards the hangar. He cradled his right arm as he walked. The Russian reached out and grabbed Bond by the lapels of his jacket.

"Are you ready to die?" asked the Russian. "Yes, yes you are."

Before Bond could speak, the Russian wrapped him a bear hug and squeezed. The pressure took the breath from Bond's body. He wheezed and struggled as he felt his body bending to the man's mighty grasp. His vision began to dim, his body going into shock at the fantastic amount of pain the man was putting his nervous system through.

Hobbling into the hangar, Number 2 saw the Baroness waiting at the foot of the jet's steps. The low whine of the jet engine was growing louder as the pilot prepared to taxi out of the hangar and on to the runway.

"I have given the pilot instructions," the Baroness said as Number 2 approached her. "There is a nuisance on the runway, she is to be run over as we take off."

"We?" Number 2 asked cryptically.

Before the Baroness could respond, she felt the sharp tip of the knife going into her stomach. Snarling and holding the butterfly knife in his left hand, Number 2 pushed the Baroness backwards and let her fall to the floor.

"This is how SPECTRE rewards failure, my dear," he chided her, bending down to wipe the blood on the blade off on her shirt. "You were ordered to kill Bond and the woman on sight, but yet you play games and let them escape... and you cost me my money."

Without a further word, Number 2 stepped over the bleeding Baroness and climbed the steps into the plane. She gave a feeble moan and held on to the gaping wound in her stomach as the jet rolled out of the hangar.

Bond's head lolled back as he began to lose consciousness. His bones creaked against the powerful muscles of the Russian. He screamed out in pain and thrashed in vain against the unbreakable grip.

"No," shouted Natalia.

She flew through the air and came down on the Russian's back. With a cable pulled from her gauntlet, she wrapped the wire around the man's neck and yanked backwards. The wire bit down on his windpipe, stopping him in his track. The Russian dropped Bond and began to paw at Natalia, but she kept out of the big man's wide reach. He gurgled and strained against the pressure on his throat, his eyes bulging in both anger and fear.

Standing up on trembling legs, Bond pulled his combat knife from its holster and struck out at the venerable Russian. He shoved the blade upwards, piercing the bottom of the man's mouth and driving it into his head. Blood poured from his mouth, his massive hands moving to the wound and forgetting about the cord around his neck. Natalia kicked him forward and springboarded off his back, landing next to Bond on shaky legs. Bond caught her, letting her lean against his shoulder for support.

The Russian stumbled forward, dazed and unsure of his surroundings. He walked towards the end of the runway, the blood pouring from the gaping wound and staining the snow crimson. There came a distant whine. Both Bond and Natalia turned towards the end of the runway, where the private jet was preparing to take off.

"That man I was fighting left for a plane," said Bond. "Him and the Baroness."

"It's a SPECTRE plot," Natalia rasped. "They've got billions of dollars stashed in Swiss banks that they'll use to collapse the Euro. The only person who can use the funds is someone the Baroness called Number 2."

Bond saw the jet gaining speed as it traveled down the runway. In a flash of inspiration, he knew what to do. Letting go of Natalia, he walked over to a pile of snow and pulled the M4 he had lost in the struggle with Number 2.

Bond walked forward towards the runway, holding the M4 up and steady. He drew a bead on the approaching plane and flicked on the grenade launcher attachment. He pressed the trigger. There was the whoosh of compressed air as the grenade flew from the attachment and hurdled through the air.

There was a loud cloud of smoke and fire as the grenade connected with the jet's front right side. There was a loud boom as the jet slid sideways, nearly coming off the runway. The front wheel buckled and snapped, sending the front of the fuselage to the ground. Sparks chased the speeding plane as it careened towards the end of the runway and the thousand foot drop that awaited it.

Still dazed and bleeding, the Russian looked up as the fiery wreck of the LearJet roared towards him. He gave out a bloody, ear-piercing scream as the front of the plane smashed into him and sent both fo them off the side of the cliff. Bond and Natalia hobbled after the wreck and stopped at the edge of the cliff. A dazzling fireball shot up from the wreckage below, encasing the rocks, metal, and people in a coffin of fire.

Thick black smoke poured upwards as the fire raged with an intensity only jet fuel could offer. Bond and Natalia watched in silence for several minutes, neither one of them willing to speak. Finally, Natalia broke the silence with a soft chuckle that made Bond turn away from the fire to look at her.

"What?" he asked.

"It looks like our Russian friend caught a flight..."

Bond laughed, soft and low at first, until he was laughing so hard his eyes were watering and he clutched at his bruised and hurting sides. For Bond it felt good to laugh. It felt good to be alive and out on top. They had stopped SPECTRE and the counterfeiting plot.

"Not bad," he said between laughs. "It seems... that SPECTRE's plans went up... went up in smoke."

Natalia started laughing harder at this. She wiped tears from her eyes and shook her head.

"Damn you," she said with a sigh. "It hurts to laugh."

"I know," he said, catching his breath. "But it feels so damn good."


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**Taking in the View**

**Gstaad, Switzerland**

**1545 Local Time**

Bond looked himself over in the bathroom mirror. His bruised face was beginning to yellow, the first signs that the healing process was underway. Besides the bruises, there was a bandage on his cheek just under the eye. The vertical cut on his face had been deep enough to leave a potential scar, or so the doctor had told Bond when he had examined it. At the doctor's final tally, Bond had a dozen minor bruises in various spots across his body. The cut on his face and a nasty cut on his hand were the two deepest wounds he had. His bones and muscles still ached from the Russian's squeeze, but the doctor had assured him that would fade within days.

After phoning M, the man had called in Interpol and let them take it from there. An armed police team had raided the mountaintop facility and found Bond and Natalia, the unconscious guards and workers were taken into custody. They had also found the Baroness, bleeding out in the hangar floor from a knife wound to the stomach. She had been flown to Zürich for emergency surgery. Bond hadn't heard back yet, but it was fifty-fifty odds she would live. If she did survive, she would be in Interpol custody, charged with a laundry list of crimes.

Bond and Natalia had spent a full day in Interpol custody in Zürich, being debriefed by them, the Swiss Intelligence Service, MI6, and SHIELD. They recapped the events of the last few days, from their arrival in Minsk all the way to the fiery demise of Number 2 and the Russian. Bond and an Interpol man had searched through a database for hours, searching for a man who matched the description of Number 2. They had found it after the fourth hour. Count Vincenzo Colucci, a former mafioso from Camorra, matched Number 2's face perfectly. Inquires and questions had been sent to the Italian state police. When Bond and Natalia left Zürich, Colucci's whereabouts were still unknown.

With SPECTRE's attempts to undermine the Euro finished, the only job left fell to the lawyers and negotiators for all the countries involved. The Swiss would resist any efforts to reclaim the counterfeit money for evidence, their fierce protection of privacy as well as their attempts to save face would drag it out until long after Bond and Natalia had left the country.

And, remarked Bond, that would be a bit. In appreciation for their efforts, Interpol had paid for a month stay in Gstaad, the ski resort nestled in the Swiss alps an hour away from Geneva. Both M and Fury had approved the two agents going on holiday for the duration, time to recuperate and rest after a job well done.

This evening marked their first here. They shared a cabin a quarter-mile from the main resort. It offered them both a quiet place to rest. And that they had. They had arrived at the cabin nearly twelve hours earlier, both of them retiring to separate rooms to sleep. Bond had woken only a half hour earlier, and the shut door told Bond Natalia was still resting.

Bond's eyes glanced down at his bare chest and stomach. The scars that dotted his stomach were each a painful reminder of the stab of a knife point in a cargo plane above India. Above the stomach was a long, diagonal scar that started at Bond's right pectoral and finished parallel to his third rib. So, if the cut on his face did indeed scar, what was another one mixed with the rest?

Shaking his head, Bond walked out of the bathroom and padded across the cabin's hardwood floors wearing only pajama bottoms. He came into the living room and stopped in front of the wide window that looked out at the alps. Bond took in the view, in awe of the glorious sight before him. The beautiful peaks capped with pure white snow seemed as if they had been crafted for him and only him. It was a sight to behold, for sure.

He turned as he heard footsteps on the floor behind him. Natalia was standing in the threshold between the hallway and the living room. She wore a white button-up dress shirt that clung to her body. Bond noted that it was his, and he recalled her saying something earlier about not having any sleeping clothes. From the way the shirt rode up against her thighs and chest, Bond could tell that there was nothing underneath the shirt but bare flesh.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully, avoiding a comment on her attire.

"Evening is more like it," she said, rubbing her puffy and swollen face.

"I was about to order some breakfast," he said, picking up the telephone. "What would you like?"

"Bacon and eggs. Lots of them."

Bond nodded and ordered two dishes of _Zopf_, a traditional Swiss breakfast item that is a rich white bread baked in the shape of a braid, and served with sausage, bacon, and eggs. He ordered coffee and orange juice to go with the food.

"Should be a half hour," he said, putting the phone down. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," Natalia said with a shrug. "A bit restless, but that seems to happen when I come off an operation. My mind is shifting from the light sleep that comes with missions to my normal deep sleep."

"Yes," said Bond, sitting on the plush sofa. "The comedown does take a day or two to get used to."

Natalia padded across the room, coming towards Bond. She came to a stop in front of him, looking down at Bond curiously.

"May I ask you something?"

"You just did," he said with a wry smile.

"In Minsk," she said, ignoring Bond's jab. "You mentioned that you don't mix business and pleasure while on a mission... what about after a mission?"

"After a mission?" he asked, looking up into her green eyes. "Well, after a mission, it's all pleasure."

"Good."

Natalia reached up to the buttons of her shirt and undid them. When all the buttons were free, she let the shirt slide from her shoulders and fall to the floor at her feet. Her body was like Bond's, bruised and dotted with scars. But, for the second time today, Bond took in the view before him and was in awe of the sight.

"You said we have a half hour before our food arrives?"

Natalia stepped forward and took Bond's hand, standing him up and pressing his body close to hers.

"Yes," was all Bond dared to say.

"Good," she said, leaning forward towards Bond. "Plenty of time."

Bond leaned in, his lips brushing gently against hers.

"For what" he whispered softly.

"For us to work up an appetite."

**The End**

**James Bond Will Return In...**

**Last Killer Standing**


End file.
